A Severus Christmas Carol
by Strega Arvay
Summary: What the Dickens? Severus Snape finds himself at the end of the year, feeling particularly foul. Leave it to the 'ghosts' of Christmas Past, Present and Future to set him straight. AU story with DH spoilers! Takes place in Harry's 5th year... sorta.
1. Prelude

**~Prelude~**

It was the last day of classes before the winter holidays and every student in Hogwarts was eagerly awaiting the end of their last class, anxious to run out and join their friends in the newly fallen snow. For some, the hours flew by like a feather on a breeze. The students in Professor Flitwick's class were gleefully enchanting paper stars to shoot across the room, emitting a trail of golden sparks in their wake. Hagrid's students were all gathered around the fireplace inside his hut, observing the behaviors of the recently hatched infant Salamanders as they frolicked in the blazing hearth. Even Professor McGonagall had abandoned her usually stringent lesson plan, choosing instead to entertain her impressionable first-years with legendary tales of epic wizarding battles and the mystic origins of Christmas folklore. But Harry, Ron and Hermione were among the unfortunate few stranded in the freezing dungeons, sitting through a grueling double potions segment with the Slytherins.

To make matters worse, in retribution for their dismal failures on earlier assignments, Professor Snape had them all doing remedial potions work. Today, they were constructing an extraordinarily complicated anti-venom that was going to be collected for a grade by the end of class. Save for the sounds of crackling flames underneath the cauldrons and the faint chopping of ingredients, the room was completely quiet. No one dared speak or even breathe loudly. Even the Slytherins had ceased their traditional jeers and catcalls out of fear for their head of house.

Snape had been in the foulest of moods for the past week, finding any and every excuse to dock points from unsuspecting students. On this day, he seemed at the very pinnacle of his contempt. He stalked impatiently between the tables, silent as a shadow. His black robes billowed about him like smoke as he walked, stopping only to suddenly loom menacingly over a student's shoulder or peer disgustedly into their cauldron. Poor Neville didn't stand a chance.

"Longbottom," he hissed, breathing down his neck, "What exactly do you think you are doing?"

Snape's ominous pacing and searing glances had made Neville so nervous that it was almost impossible for him to focus, and now with Snape leering over him, he was positively petrified. "I…I'm ch-chopping my asphodel roots, sir."

"No, you're not," he snarled. "You were supposed to slice the roots, not incompetently hack them to useless bits. Ten points from Gryffindor."

Neville hung his head in shame as Snape moved down the table, his brow furrowed and his lip curled. Snape was on the prowl now. Nobody was safe from his wrath. Not even…

"Miss Granger." Hermione looked up from her work, braving a defiant stare into Snape's cold black eyes. There was no way he could find something wrong with her work; it was near perfect. "It's so wonderful to see that you have finally abandoned your usual schemes to assist Mr. Longbottom with his pathetic work. Now you can fully devote to perfecting your own over achieving status. You must be so thrilled to be finally free of all that dead weight."

Hermione, her jaw hanging loose, completely at a loss for words, glanced apologetically to Neville, but he wouldn't look at her. He just sat mute and picked at a burn on the table as Snape continued his hunt. Ron began to frantically fumble through his bag, pulling out random papers and ingredients in the hopes that if he seemed busy, Snape would overlook him. But he didn't need to worry. Snape had bigger and far more important fish to fry.

Harry had his head bent low, scrutinizing his notes, checking and double checking every detail of the instructions. He had cut his asphodel roots with the utmost care and precision. He had minced and measured the exact amount of dittany, and the flame under his cauldron was just right. He was NOT going to mess this up. He was not going to give Snape that satisfaction.

Harry bent lower and began to meticulously prepare the foxglove, the key ingredient in the anti-venom. Diligent and painstaking, he was so focused that he did not hear the soft tap of boots making their way across they flagstone floor. Nor did he notice those boots stop dead center in front of him. He was not aware of the shadow that lingered above him, nor the faint impatient drumming of long fingers on his desk. Harry heard and saw nothing but his work, so it was quite startling to him when a voice suddenly rang out like a gunshot, echoing through the dungeon.

"POTTER!"

Some of the braver Slytherins snuck a stifled snort of laughter as Harry jumped, sending his neatly measured bowl of foxglove soaring through the air. Fortunately, many years of Quidditch practice had heightened his reflexes and he was able to catch most of it before it hit the ground. Refusing to look up at Snape, he set to picking the now worthless pieces up off the floor.

"Such insolence will not be tolerated, Potter. Twenty points from Gryffindor!"

"WHAT?" Harry yelled, dropping the foxglove he just retrieved.

"The next time I call on you," Snape sneered "you had better respond the FIRST time, do I make myself clear?"

"I… No."

Snape's eyebrows shot up so high they threatened to disappear into his hairline. "Do not dare defy me, Potter. That is another five points from Gry-"

"No!" Harry panicked, standing up. "I meant that… just… what do you mean 'the first time'?"

"Your name, idiot boy. Your name!" Snape spat. "The next time I call your name, you had better-"

"But you only called me once!"

"No," said Snape, his voice a deadly silk. "I called on you near five times before you so _gracefully_ decided to acknowledge me. Do your ears need cleaning out, or are you honestly so sure of yourself that you do not feel the need to listen to your superiors?"

Harry's face was burning in anger, but he managed to maintain control as he sat back down. "No sir," he said through clenched teeth. "Sorry sir. It won't happen again."

"I highly doubt that," Snape said, smugly clasping his hands behind his back. "You're far too much like your father."

Harry resumed his work, trying to regain his focus, to close out Snape and his gloating.

"Yes, so very like your saint of a father," Snape growled, now pacing the dungeon floor, addressing the class more so than Harry, it seemed. "He, too, felt that he was too good and too great for rules. Too good for anything, or anyone."

Harry took a deep calming breath and set about re-chopping his foxglove, purposefully hitting the wood of the table with as much force as possible in an attempt to drown Snape out. He was baiting him, and Harry was determined not to bite. Affecting the slightest of smirks, Harry shot a look up at Snape, gathered his freshly chopped foxglove and dropped it with an impudent flourish into the cauldron.

Snape stopped mid sentence, staring at Harry's cauldron… whose contents had just turned an almost phosphorescent shade of yellow. "Potter," Snape murmured icily. "What did you do?"

"I… I don't know…" Harry frantically searched his notes. "Yellow? It can't be yellow! It should be blue!"

"Harry…?" Hermione called timidly.

"Wait!" he said, still searching his notes. "I just… I… No." To his horror, Harry realized that he had jumped a step, forgetting to stir the potion two times counterclockwise, thus creating a very deadly poison.

"Harry!"

"WHAT is it, Hermione?" Harry turned and saw that his cauldron was now producing a heavy mist, a suffocating and malodorous vapor.

"Everybody out!" ordered Snape as the noxious cloud poured from his cauldron and began to fill the room. But before Harry could shake himself from his stunned stupor, Hermione dashed in front of him, throwing something into his cauldron, which immediately stopped fuming and turned an innocent shade of white.

"No… No need, Professor," Hermione panted, clearly out of breath. "It's… okay… I just added dried fluxweed… it should be alright. Totally useless now, of course… but at least…" One seething glare from Snape was all that was needed to render Hermione completely speechless. He then rounded on Harry.

"Mr. Potter… celebrity, hero, and saint…" Snapes eyes were full of loathing and so narrow that they looked almost closed. "Are you really so desperately in need of people to save that you need to create your own natural disasters?" Before Harry could retort, Snape emptied Harry's cauldron with a furious wave of his wand. "Thirty points from Gryffindor for yet another failure."

The room was suddenly filled with the Gryffindor's despairing cries and moans, especially from Ron, who was yelling and beating the table in Harry's defense. But when the storm subsided, leaving Ron red in the face and many other students white in shock, Snape was unfazed. He strode over, the evilest of grins just barely visible in the shadow of his swaying black curtains of hair, and peered into Ron's cauldron.

"Tsk, tsk, Weasly. So close… so very close…" And Snape made Ron's anti-venom vanish, just as he had Harry's. "But it is unfortunately just one more shameful failure. That's a zero, for the both of you"

"But that's just not fair!" It was Hermione's turn. Her eyes were glowing in indignation with her hands balled up into fists by her side. "His potion was just fine! It was nearly as good as my own!"

"Always the best, never second to anyone," he snorted. In one deft swish of his wand, Snape banished her potion as well, his face gleaming with malice. "Well, now you are among equals for once. Zero points." Hermione's face fell, the once blazing fire within her completely put out and her eyes brimming with tears.

The room turned into a tempest of shouts and threats, most of it stemming from Harry, who had finally lost it, and Ron, who had toppled his stool over jumping to his feet in anger. The two Gryffindors raged and roared like lions, hurling every insult, profanity, and swear they could think of at their Potions master until, finally he silenced them.

"ENOUGH!" The room stilled once more, encased in an almost tangible silence. "Potter. Weasley. You have detention everyday starting at after breakfast at eight o'clock, and you will not be released until I am satisfied. You too, Miss Granger." Hermione looked up, mouth agape, eyes bloodshot. "Dried fluxweed…? Ingenious. Tell me, do you constantly travel with such a ready supply hidden up your sleeve, or do you just simply enjoy the thrill of stealing from other people's personal collections?" Hermione blushed underneath his steely glare. She chanced a glance to the corner to see that, in her haste, she had left the doors to Snape's office standing wide open. "I do not, nor have I ever approved of anyone breaking into my private stores, no matter how much glorious Gryffindor heroism propelled the action Therefore, detention, tomorrow morning. Be on time, or don't ever bother returning to this classroom again." With a swish of his cloak, he turned on his heel and glided over to his desk. "Oh, and fifty points apiece from Gryffindor for your insolence. Clean up your things and get out of my sight. NOW!"

*************************

Snape was merciless in his punishments, taking full advantage of the trio's break from classes to really push their limits. He worked them for hours on end, breaking only for lunch or to berate them for their incompetent work. Half of what he ordered the three of them to do was mindless and unnecessary, designed only to make the time slip by irritatingly slowly. They were made to re-organize massive amounts of dusty, rarely used texts that were already almost perfectly alphabetized to begin with. Then they had to sort, re-label and shelve dried potion ingredients from the chaotically cluttered student's ingredients cupboard, and, without magic, scrub and polish all the desks and cauldrons in the classroom. Such mundane labor turned minutes into hours, and hours into days, especially when the clock in the classroom 'mysteriously' ceased to work.

But those chores were a godsend compared to the other half of their tasks. It was as if Snape had vindictively gone out in search of the most weird, creepy and downright disgusting things on the face of the planet, had them placed in somewhat leaky jars, and then made sure that at least one in every three needed to be relocated to a better, less confining container… manually.

It was the day before Christmas and Harry, Ron and Hermione were still stuck in the freezing potions classroom, gutting some odd, slimy thing that none of them wanted to identify. Nobody was talking, mainly because they were feeling too queasy to risk opening their mouths. So the room was, as usual, silent. The only sound to be heard was the sick squishing of the slimy gelatinous creatures and Snape's quill ruthlessly scratching away at some hapless student's essay. Finally, sounding like the most holy choir of seraphim, the bell rang for lunch.

"You may go," Snape said without looking up from his work. They immediately scrambled to leave. Even though none of them really had much of an appetite, Christmas was beckoning just outside the door, and they were eager to greet it.

"I'll see you three tomorrow morning at eight o'clock," Snape said. "Be sure to bring your dragon hide gloves."

Harry, Ron and Hermione nearly collided into each other as they skidded to a halt at the door. "Pardon, sir?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

"You'll be sorting out expired scorpion stings from the good ones," said Snape, still not looking up. "So bring your dragon hide gloves. You are going to need them."

"Tomorrow, sir?" said Hermione aghast. "But tomorrow is Christmas!"

"Eight thirty, then."

"But I was going home for Christmas!" Ron complained. "All of us were!"

"Yes, Professor," Harry chimed in. "We're all expected to be at the Burrow this evening! Mrs. Weasley will be furious if we don't show up!"

"And how is any of this my concern?" The tone in Snape's voice was deadly. It was a dare, but Harry saw his chance and took it.

"Have you ever been on the receiving end of a Molly Weasley homemade Howler, sir?" Snape halted his writing. His quill rested poised above the parchment, allowing the red ink to steadily drip into a tiny pool in the margins. "They're horrible. Ron can attest to that."

Ron shook his head vigorously in agreement, catching on to Harry's gambit. "Honestly, sir, it's dreadful. And it's not the worst she can do. Believe me, I know. Once you cross her path, there is little hope of going ba-"

"Silence," snarled Snape, turning to face them, his eyes narrowed and fierce. "I've heard enough. You can have your ridiculous holiday." Their faces lit up in triumph as Snape slowly turned away, resuming his work. "But it will cost you." Their faces fell, dread sinking in. Snape could barely suppress a snicker as he added the linchpin to their fate. "Come the 26th, you will be in my office at precisely 7 AM and you will not leave until 7 PM that night. Also, I will expect your essays on the varying properties of snake venom and their respective antidotes to be on my desk first thing that morning."

Hermione went white. "But sir, that essay isn't due until next week!"

Snape nearly laughed at the sight of her sheer panic. "Then I highly suggest you start writing it now."

"But…" Harry spluttered, incensed. "You can't… I can't… There isn't…"

"Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Potter," Snape crooned derisively. "Will you be too busy trying to save the world? Can't you fit it into your demanding hero's schedule?" Harry opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Snape snorted, "Why do you even bother?"

Eyes cast down, Harry's shoulders fell. His mouth remained slightly open, unable, or just unwilling, to argue anymore. For a moment, Snape looked him square in the eyes, calculating, looking for something that no one else could see or know.

Abruptly, he threw down his quill and rose from his chair. "Go on. Get out." he snapped, vehemently waving them away, his cloak flying about him. "Get out of my sight, you miserable little wretches!" he rushed them out the door, looking positively alarming. "Go on! Away with you! GO!" The three ran pell-mell into the corridor and disappeared round a corner, leaving Snape standing in the doorway, seething with anger.

*************************

Snape skipped dinner that evening so as to avoid the absurd holiday merriment of the staff, and barricaded himself in his office in an attempt to finish grading papers. The solace of his isolation was broken, however, when a sharp rapping on his door suddenly commanded his attention. Before he could respond, the door flew open, revealing a rather irritated Professor McGonagall, clutching a piece of parchment in her hand.

"Good evening, Professor," he drawled sarcastically. "To what do I owe this auspicious visitation?"

"Professor Snape," she began, trying to keep her tone civil, if not steady. "I was filing my end of the year report when I stumbled upon this!" she said, brandishing the somewhat lengthy parchment in front of his face. Snape recognized it as the student behavior referral he had written up on the last day of class.

"What of it?" he asked, tempering a sneer.

"I, of course, knew something was amiss when my house was suddenly in _last_ place for the house cup…" A smirk flickered over Snape's face. "But this is just outrageous!" she blustered, her face blotching red. "Over TWO HUNDRED points? THREE undefined periods of detentions? And all in ONE DAY! I simply will not stand for it!"

"How I discipline students who misbehave in my classroom is my concern, not yours, Minerva," said Snape coolly.

"But from the way you put it, people would assume they blew up the school! You cannot possibly…"

"I cannot what, pray tell?" he retorted, cutting her off. "I am still very much in my right to deal out punishment the way I see fit!" He glared at her, challenging her to contradict him. After a moment's pause, he looked away and continued his work, scoffing. "Those little miscreants deserve everything they got," he murmured. "Especially Potter. He gets away with far too much! And since I'm the only one in this blasted school who refuses to over-favor our supposed _hero_..."

"But of all days… detention on Christmas?"

"Oh, I am so sick of hearing that!" he snapped, glowering at her. "Such a pathetic excuse! It's one simple day out of the year, no more. What difference could it possibly make?"

McGonagall lingered for a moment, studying Snape. Her face softened. "Severus," she sighed. "Potter has a hard time ahead of him. All of them do, and you know it. We can at least let them enjoy it while they can."

"Yes, well I had a hard time too," he shot, "and you don't see me trying to wear it as some bloody badge of pride."

"Considering how _glorious_ your past was, Severus," McGonagall shot back "I don't think you could if you wanted to." If looks could kill, Snape would have struck McGonagall down. But she continued undaunted. "Given the circumstances, you could try to be a little more giving."

"And _you_ could try being a little less invasive, you meddlesome old bat," he grumbled. McGonagall stood frozen, gawking in the light of such disrespect. "Now if you don't mind, Professor, I have papers to grade."

With an exasperated tut, she turned and left the dungeons, slamming the door behind her.

The candles in Snape's office slowly burned down to flickering stubs as the night went on. His ire, fueled by Professor McGonagall's audacity, had him grading essays with ever increasing severity. By the time he was finally finished, the papers were so covered in red ink they looked as if they were bleeding. Weary and utterly vexed, he stared down at his work. He sat there for a long time, completely lost in thought, looking at the papers but not really seeing them. Out of the corner of his eye, one of the marks seemed to twist and contort, moving like a snake across the page, joining with others in the shape of an open mouthed skull…

Snape shook himself from his reverie and, blinking, checked the page. No, it was nothing, just a trick of the light on his somnolent eyes. Closing his grade book with a snap, he made his way out into the chilly corridor down to his private quarters. He entered into his rooms, and hung his work robe habitually on the hook near the door.

The house-elves had already been in that evening, rekindling the fire in the hearth so that it now cast dancing shadows all over the bookshelf covered walls of his sitting room. Making his way across the room, Snape noticed that they had also left him a small plate of Christmas cookies and pies on the table by his armchair. He picked up the cheery present, plate and all, and threw it disgustedly into the trash. He opened, instead, one of the cabinets on the wall and withdrew a small glass and an unadorned glass bottle full of amber liquid. Seating himself in his chair by the fire, he poured himself a small shot of the whiskey, watched it spin lazily for a moment in his glass, and downed it. He then poured himself another, larger, shot, which he ignored, taking a giant swill straight from the bottle instead.

Several hours later, the roaring fire had reduced to nothing but a meager collection of tiny fluttering flames, oddly illuminating the still full shot glass sitting on the table and the nearly empty bottle resting in Snape's hand. He was staring into the fire, feeling and thinking absolutely nothing as the dying flames glinted in his half-opened eyes. Then he heard it, a knock on the door… a most annoying knock… to the unmistakable beat of jingle bells. Rolling his bloodshot eyes, Snape relented to the intruder. "Come in, Professor."

Albus Dumbledore stepped over the threshold, carrying a plate of food and a small ornately wrapped present. "Merry Christmas, Severus," he greeted genially, closing the door behind him. "We missed you at the Christmas Eve party. So sorry you couldn't make it," he said as he crossed over to him, setting the food on the table next to the shot glass. "May I?" he asked, indicating the shot. Snape gave no reply. "I'll take that as a 'yes'," and Dumbledore threw back the shot. "Ah… it just warms the insides doesn't it? But then again…" he noted the bottle in Snape's hands "I'm just preaching to the choir, aren't I?"

"Did you want anything, sir?" Snape asked curtly.

"No, not really," he replied. "Just wanted to make sure you got your Christmas present, and a little food. I noticed you weren't at dinner tonight."

"I had papers to grade."

"I figured as much," said Dumbledore, a faint smile appearing under his beard. "Well then, at least you will be able to make it to the feast tomorrow afternoon. Actually, more like later today as it is already well past midnight."

"I'd rather not."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at Snape, feigning utter incredulity. "Why ever not, Severus?"

"Because," Snape growled "I do believe I might shove a whole Christmas turkey down the throat of the next person who foolishly tries to enlighten me with this absurd notion of holiday cheer."

"I'll take my chances," chuckled the headmaster as he handed Snape his gift. "Go on, open it."

"Maybe later," he said, and returned to staring broodingly at the fire.

Dumbledore cleared a space on the table and sat on it, facing Snape. His eyes were focused, serious and far less jovial. "Severus," he said. His voice was calm, but there was a sense of urgency in his tone. "I understand that life has been hard to you. I also know how dreary these times are becoming, and that they are only going to get darker, but you need to at least try. We all need to try to remain optimistic, to keep hope."

"Hope?" Snape's head swiveled drunkenly on his shoulders as he tried to focus on Dumbledore. "What hope? Honestly, this damned Christmas has everyone talking of hope, of cheer and love. It's sickening. Everyone lolling about in their bovine happiness... just lining themselves up unknowingly for the slaughter. We are on the eve of war and this so-called HOPE is softening people to think we stand a chance. That we can win."

"Do you honestly think we can't, Severus?" Dumbledore questioned.

"I don't know anymore," Snape exhaled, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. "Even if by some divine providence we manage to prove victorious, I, for one, would like to be among the lucky few who are blissfully removed from the torment of this world in the process. So far as I'm concerned, I've already played my part… and a great deal of good that did."

Dumbledore looked grave. "Your young friend Regulus used to think the same way, did he not? Look where it got him."

Snape turned suddenly in his chair, his face contorted in a vicious rage. "DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK ABOUT HIM!" he roared. "It's your fault he died. You got to him. It was you who made him think he could change events!"

"Severus," Dumbledore said, trying to calm the enraged younger man in front of him. "Listen to me; you don't know what you're talking about. I…"

"NO! IT'S YOUR FAULT! It's your fault that he tried! He was so young and stupid, just like his brother! You knew how reckless he was, and yet YOU gave him this absurd thought that he could win alone. This ridiculous HOPE!"

Dumbledore's eyes had lost their shine. They were cold and hard, just as mean as the eyes staring back at him. "…Or is it that he died, Severus, because you did not have enough hope in you to help him?"

Snape lurched to his feet, his long nose inches away from Dumbledore's, and breathed, his voice a deep and venomous whisper, "…Get out." The look on his face was indiscernible in the failing light, but the sound of his words carried such hate and pain as Dumbledore had never heard before.

"Severus, I…" Dumbledore began, his face wrinkled in concern.

"OUT!" he bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth onto Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles. The headmaster, for a moment, didn't move, but then, with a sad bow, turned and left the room.

Snape turned his back to the door and seized the whiskey bottle. He threw his head back and began chugging what little remained.

Outside the door, Professor McGonagall stood waiting. "Do you see what I mean, Albus?"

"Yes, I do, Minerva," Dumbledore sighed, "and it is even worse than we thought."

McGonagall's shoulders dropped as the two of them began walking up the stone staircase leading out of the dungeons. "Something must be done, and soon."

"I know…" he replied. "I know."


	2. STAVE ONE: the ghost

**~STAVE ONE~**

**the ghost**

Snape leaned unsteadily on the mantelpiece, resting his head on his arm as the whole room seemed to swim about him. The empty liquor bottle, after being thrown into the flames in a fit of rage, lay shattered on the hearth, catching and releasing the glint of light still flashing from the fire. He opened his eyes, staring down into the comfort of the glow, and jumped at the sight of a face looking back up at his from the flames… a familiar face… He blinked and it was gone. He continued to stare into the fire, thinking someone had tried to contact him through the floo network. After waiting in vain for the face to return, though, he concluded that it must have been a mere trick of the light. His eyes and brain, all of him actually, was quite tired. He straightened up with a yawn and turned to go to bed.

But a dark figure of a man stood silhouetted in the dim light, blocking the doorway to his bedchamber. Instinctively, Snape drew his wand and fired with deadly accuracy.

"STUPEFY!"

The spell soared straight through the figure, impacting the wall behind him in an explosion of sparks.

"Too bad, Severus," the figure called out stepping forward. "That was a really decent shot. I pity the poor un-departed soul who dares challenge you next." He entered into the light, revealing a visage that Snape knew all too well.

"Regulus…" He stumbled back to the fire place in shock, clutching onto the mantel for support. "But… you're dead."

"Brilliant observation," he drawled.

"What… how…" Snape fumbled, utterly confounded. "Are… are you a ghost?"

"Not exactly," he said, brushing a rather transparent piece of lint off of his equally transparent shoulder. "I mean, I know I look the part but I'm actually more like a specter… a phantom, if you will. But those are trifles, really."

"Why are you here?" demanded Snape, getting braver.

The image of Regulus Black fixed his glassy eyes on Snape. "I've come to warn you, Severus. You're going down a dark path that ends only in your utter ruin; the same path on which I lost myself."

Snape's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the apparition. "What are you… oh, wait…" He quirked a smile. "This… this is a trick," he laughed, almost manic. "This is Dumbledore's work. Okay, wonderful. Come on out Dumbledore, you old fool, and end this bloody ruse!"

"Dumbledore has nothing to do with this, Severus." Regulus was unsmiling.

"Then I've definitely had too much to drink," said Snape pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. "Just go away." He didn't know whether it would work or not, as he was unsure if he was merely dreaming this or suffering from a dire hallucination. When he finally opened his eyes, there was nothing there. Snape heaved a sigh of relief.

"I do wish you would hear me, Severus."

Snape spun around. Regulus was there, sitting in his chair and, although he was quite ghostlike, there was no doubt that his presence was indeed real.

"How…"

"Listen," said Regulus, cutting him off. "I have no time for games, nor the patience. And neither do you." He stood up, toe to toe with Snape, and looked him dead in the eye. "War is coming, Severus, and you must be prepared or your fate will be the same as mine."

"What, death?" Snape scoffed, unmoved. "I do not fear death. I welcome it."

"Death is only the half of it." Snape's brow furrowed, perplexed. "Do you not hear them?"

"Hear who?"

Regulus grabbed hold of Snape's shoulder, his transparent hand icily cold. Suddenly, Snape heard thousands of terrible voices crying out in misery, wailing and screaming, reverberating off the stone room. The awful, bone-chilling noise was relentless. He tried to pull off Regulus's grip, but Snape's hand passed right through him.

"Who are they?" Snape asked, aghast.

"They are all those who suffer at your hand. Your victims, those you've tortured, those you've wronged." Snape's eyes widened. "I know that look," said Regulus, a shrewd expression stretching across his face. "Yes, you have heard them already, in your sleep, in your waking dreams, in your moments of solitude. You confine yourself to them, suffering in silence so that you may feel penitent. Retreating to the darkness of your dungeon, denying yourself any pleasure, any light, or any hope. All because you are too afraid to let go of your greatest fear."

"How DARE you suggest that I am a coward!" Snape thundered.

"Oh, but you are, Severus," Regulus contested. "Hiding in your own little detached world, however bleak, you are too afraid to care about anything, not even yourself. You attach yourself to nothing you fear you might lose. You stay cold, you stay mean, and therefore you stay strong." He tightened his grip on Snape's shoulder. The screaming became worse, practically unbearable. "But if you think the voices are horrible now, wait until your so-called 'welcomed death'. They are not just those who have suffered, but also those who are suffering. Those who, because of what you have done or have not done, continue to live in anguish long after you are gone. They scream the worst of all.

"You think you have nothing to live for? That you are no longer a part of this war, or no longer even a part of this life? There is much to be done but, unlike myself, you have the luxury of time and allies to help you… but only if you let them. Heed my warning, Severus Snape, or your fate will be the same as mine." He let go of his shoulder. The wailing in the room ceased.

Snape's eyes were hollow and his face blanched. "Such dark tales from an old companion," he murmured. "After all the time we shared in life, during school, and through all the trials and subterfuge of the Dark Lord's reign… After everything! Is there not any consolation to be found in your words?"

"Such comforts are for those who know their fate and do not fear it," he answered wryly. "So you, of course, should feel quite at ease." Regalus sighed and began to back away. "You will be haunted by three spirits."

"Wha- haunted?" Snape started, caught off guard. "I've quite had enough of that!"

Regulus ignored him. "Expect the first ghost tonight when the bell tolls one." The outlines of his image began to blur as he began to fade away into the darkness.

Snape stepped forward. "Regulus, wait!" He looked up at Snape, his lifeless eyes baleful. "Your death… I… There was nothing I could have done."

A wane smile flickered over Regulus's disappearing face. "When the bell tolls one," he repeated. He raised his hand and pushed it straight through Snape's face. He fell, limply, into his chair, as all around him went to darkness.


	3. STAVE TWO: the angel

**~STAVE TWO~**

**the angel**

The sitting room was completely dark, the fire having gone out long ago, when Snape awoke in his armchair. All was quiet around him as he sat ensconced in the cold stillness, hearing nothing but his labored breathing and the faint ticking of the clock on the mantle. Suddenly, panic seizing him, Snape threw himself out of his chair, his wand held aloft. "Lumos!" he gasped as he tried, still rather inebriated, to focus on the clock. The light from his wand tip shone brightly as he read the time: 4:05.

A dream. That's all it had been, just a dream. No one was coming for him. Snape mumbled irascibly to himself for his foolishness, to be tricked by a dream. A ridiculous drink and stress induced dream. It was just hellish nightmare, nothing more.

Carrying his wand out in front of him, Snape stumbled into his bedroom and made his way into the adjoining bathroom. His mind reeled as he washed his face, the cold water biting his skin. He couldn't stop thinking about the dreadful events of his nightmare. _Three ghosts… the first to come at the stroke of one… that's what he said,_ Snape thought, shaking the water out of his hair. For a while he stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His face was so pallid and gaunt, almost as ghostlike as the haunting vision of Regulus still etched in his memory. He shook off the thought as he changed into one of his old graying nightshirts. Sleep. He needed sleep beyond anything else.

As he crossed over to his four-poster bed, a welcome sight to his bleared eyes, he halted suddenly, his ears picking up an unexpected sound: the tolling of the school bell. It normally rang the time during the daylight hours, but never before had he heard it so late. And it rang only once.

His heart pounding in his chest, Snape tried to reason with his dread. It was a mistake, just a random anomaly of some sort… He raised his wand with trepidation, casting light onto the clock by his bed. It read one o'clock.

_Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls one._

Without warning, all the oil lamps, candles, candle stubs, and the hearth simultaneously blazed to life, filling the room with a brilliant radiance. Shadows ran dancing on the walls and ceiling as all matter of things caught and reflected the dazzling light. Snape, with his arms brought up, shielding his eyes, squinted through his fingers and beheld a most miraculous sight. Orbs of light, thousands of them, were whirling and spinning about his sitting room at an incredible speed. Suddenly, they froze, still hovering in the air and in the next second, they were abruptly drawn to the center of the room, meeting and converging with a blinding flash. Something, all of a sudden, was there that wasn't there before… something small… something corporeal.

Straining against the glare, Snape saw in front of him a small child, a young girl, delicate and floating in the center of his room. He watched in amazement as the lamps, candles and hearth were all slowly extinguished. The luminosity of the mysterious apparition, however, shone with powerful incandescence, filling the darkened room with an otherworldly light.

"Are you the ghost that I was told would come?" Snape asked, fearing the answer.

"I am she." The voice of the spirit did not match her appearance. It was weary and full of the wisdom and sorrow of many ages, yet her sparkling eyes were very much alive. Her hair was blonde… then orange, white and then even red, like fire. It floated in the air about her, occasionally coming to rest on top the pure white of her skin.

"I am the ghost of Christmas past," she said, "and I have come for the sake of your welfare."

"Hmph!" Snape grouched. "It might have been better for my welfare to have just let me be!"

She glided forward, coming within inches of him. "Do not be so proud as to deny the aid of a spirit who is kind enough to have taken pity on you," she warned. Snape stared defiantly at her, straight into her eyes, which were painfully bright. For reasons beyond him, he couldn't tear his gaze away. His eyes were burning in the fierce glow and yet, as much as Snape regretted her being there, he felt strangely at peace in her presence.

"I do not want nor do I need your pity," he retorted, tears welling in his eyes from the pain of the light.

"We shall see," she said. Reaching forward, she put her tiny hand through his chest and with a pang of unfamiliar sensations, both joyous and terrible, she touched his heart.

All around Snape seemed to dissolve, swirling and blurred. He felt his feet leave the floor, seemingly suspended in nothingness, as the present surroundings vanished before his eyes. And then, with an almighty lurch, the world righted itself, landing Snape on what he instantly recognized as the grand staircase of Hogwarts.

The sun was high in the sky and pouring in through the windows of the castle as snow drifted lazily to the ground outside. About him, hundreds of school children were running around, talking excitedly and singing carols, some of them carrying their trunks. For a moment, Snape stood in bewilderment, unsure of what was going on. The smells and sounds of the sight before him seemed real enough. They were too familiar and too genuine to be an illusion. And yet…

"All right, break it up you two," a familiar voice rang from behind him. Snape turned around and spotted a surprisingly younger Professor McGonagall. "Come now, move along!" she ordered as she ushered two first year Gryffindors out of the way. Astounded, Snape reached out to grab her arm as she passed, but his hand slipped right through her, as if she were made of air.

Apprehension dawning, Snape turned to face the floating spirit beside him only to flinch away, having forgotten the intensity of her aura. Though he noted in time that she seemed to have grown in size, rendering her appearance slightly more human. "What is this new trick, Spirit?" he asked.

"Nothing more than the shadows of your past," she replied. "Look." She pointed at the pair of Gryffindors making their way down the stairs. Snape recognized them in an instant.

"Are you coming or what, James?" cried one of the boys to the other, who had stopped higher up on the stairs to tie his shoe.

"Yeah, hold on!" said the other, with a half exasperated smile. "Cripes, Sirius, you're more eager to see my folks than I am!"

Snape watched incredulously as James Potter and Sirius Black, as young as he ever knew them, marched laughingly down the stairs.

"Is Remus coming?" Sirius asked as they reached the landing.

"Not yet, he's still in… hold it!" The two of them held silent as a young Lucius Malfoy walked by them, his Head Boy badge gleaming importantly on his chest. But he paid them no attention. He was far too busy watching a young girl with white blonde hair talking to her darker haired sister.

"Stupid prat," Sirius growled.

James rolled his eyes and continued on. "No, actually, Remus is gonna be a little late. He's still in the shack. Full moon doesn't end till tomorrow."

"Poor bloke," Sirius said, shaking his head, "having to spend Christmas Eve all furry."

"Yeah, but I left him some meat pies I lifted from the kitchens. He should like those." Snape watched them as they disappeared walking out through giant oak front doors.

"Hey! Wait for me!" called out a young Peter Pettigrew as he ran after James and Sirius, puffing and sweaty with his hair in his eyes. Snape didn't bother to suppress his snicker as Peter fumbled with his trunk. "Hey guys, come on! HEY! Wait fo-" He accidentally collided head on into a scrawny kid with black stringy hair, knocking his books to the ground. The glare he gave in return made Peter blanch. "Ssss-sorry there… Severus," he simpered nervously. "Sorry. Uh, Merry Christmas," He then tore down the corridor. "JAMES! SIRIUS! WAIT!!!"

Snape moved closer, awestruck, as he watched his younger-self pick up his fallen books. Young Severus looked up, alert, at the sound of his name. "Oi, Snape! Come on, the train's leaving!"

"I'm not going, Avery," he responded, walking away. "I've got work to do."

"Suit yourself, mate," Avery called as he headed out the door.

Severus looked into the Great Hall, searching for a place to study, but upon seeing the festive decorations and the student's raucous holiday antics he decided against it and headed towards the dungeons. Snape followed him down the stairs, along the deserted corridors and through the secret passageway leading into the Slytherin common room. He stood silently, floored by the surreal vision, and watched himself sit down at his usual table by the fire.

"You were so often alone, Severus," the spirit noted.

Snape turned to face her, "I… argh!" He still couldn't directly look at her. In the darkness of the common room, her brilliance seemed to double. "I preferred my time alone," he said, returning his gaze to his younger self who had now begun to intently read his notes, making annotations in the margins. "I was one of the select few among all the dunderheads in this school that actually took their work seriously."

"Even on Christmas?" she inquired.

"Especially on Christmas," he said. "The school was so quiet. I could finally study in peace. I never wanted to leave for home."

"But, wasn't it quiet at your home as well?"

Snape let out a bark of a laugh. "Hah, quiet? Only when my parents got tired of yell-" He stopped mid sentence, his face hardened and eyes downcast. After a moment, with some difficulty, he continued. "Yes… it was quiet. But not like this. I liked this."

"Really?" the spirit asked poignantly.

In the next moment the room began to change, as did his younger self seated before him. Snape watched himself grow as time flew by, year by year, Christmas by Christmas, always occupying the same seat by the fire. He grew taller, almost proportional to the stack of books littering the table, and as time passed Snape saw the desolation of the years begin to sink in and take hold. Eventually, a teenager sat before him, alone, with pallid skin and dark eyes that knew too much hate and misery for their age. For what seemed like hours, he did nothing but stare unseeingly at a page of text, lost in thought. And then, in a sudden fit of anger and frustration, he slammed the book shut.

With a snap and a flash of light, the scene changed as the world shifted and turned about Snape. He landed in a new room completely decked out in Christmas décor and tables heaped full of delicious food and drinks. The place was packed with people, all of them laughing and talking animatedly over the lively music.

A jovial voice boomed from the corner, "Ten minutes to Christmas, everyone!" The room erupted in cheers and applause. Snape turned in recognition of the voice and found Professor Slughorn standing with a group of students, a burgundy Santa hat perched on his head. Laughing riotously, Slughorn clapped one of the boys on the back, threatening to spill his sloshing cup of mead. Snape chuckled dryly at the scene around him. "This is the Slug Club Christmas Party," he said with a smirk. "I hated these things. I came up with every excuse I could think of to get out of them."

Looking across the room, Slughorn's eyes suddenly widened in delighted surprise. "Severus, my boy!" Snape froze as Slughorn approached him, beaming. He could see him! He was standing in the center of a very crowded room, in his nightshirt no less, and he could see him! He was too mortified to move, caught in a classic nightmare turned traumatic reality.

It was an odd sensation as Slughorn passed straight through him, like a window had just been opened in an airless room. Confused for a moment, Snape turned and watched the rotund professor waddle over to the wall behind him. And then he spotted himself. Maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, Severus was leaning against the wall talking casually with a young Regulus Black, neither of whom was very good at concealing their annoyance when Slughorn drifted into their view.

"Severus! And young Regulus, too!" he said, too excited to notice their contempt. "So glad you boys could make it. Here, have a drink! Have a drink!" he said as he sloppily poured some of his mead into Severus's empty glass. He paused for a moment over Regulus's cup, contemplating the young boy before him. "Oh, what the heck," he said and gave him a splash of mead. "It is Christmas, after all," he winked.

Severus cleared his throat, as if to say something, probably his excuse to leave, but Slughorn interceded before he had the chance. "Oh, and Severus," he said with a puckish twinkle in his eye, "there's someone here I'd like you to meet. Where is she…" he looked around the room. Quickly spotting her in a group of other girls, chatting spiritedly, he called, "Ah! Miss Evans! Over here, dear girl, if you please!"

Snape's eyes widened, whether out of shock or excitement it was impossible to tell, as Lily Evans, her red hair plaited with a festive golden thread, practically glided across the room, like an angel. He looked on in silence, hardly daring to breathe for fear of losing the image in front of him. "Severus, my boy, this is Lily Evans," Slughorn introduced. "I don't know if you've met, but she's Mr. Pettigrew's potions partner in cla-"

"Yes," said Severus, cutting him off. "I know her."

"Good to see you Severus," she said brightly. "Having a good Christmas?"

And there it was, unbound and unstrained; a genuine smile grew on Severus's face, lighting up his eyes. "Yes, I am."

"Oh, well this is just fantastic!" Slughorn said, practically hopping with excitement. "We must get a picture. We simply must! Dumbledore, where…? There you are!" Slughorn waved him over. "Come now, Dumbledore, let's get a picture here, shall we?"

Snape gazed longingly at Lily, wistfully transfixed, as she talked lightheartedly with his younger self about various idle things, so utterly carefree, not a worry in the world.

"Do you remember her, Severus?" the spirit asked.

"Remember her?" he said, unable to look away. "I could never forget her if I wanted to."

Dumbledore, his pointed hat embellished with bells and holly, readied his camera. "Another group shot, Horace?" he asked as everyone tried to fit into view. "On the count of three, then. One… Two…"

"There was, of course, another Christmas with this young woman," the spirit said knowingly, "just a few years later."

Snape painfully tore his focus away from Lily to face the spirit, who, although still adorned by the enchanted light, had now grown considerably in size. The look on his face was wretched, his eyes imploring and desperate. "Oh please, do not show me that Christmas."

But it was too late; with the blinding flash of the camera, the room once more began to disappear and the sound faded. When the world stopped spinning, Snape found himself standing in the courtyard of the school, ankle-deep in the snow. Just beyond him, standing in front of his younger self, was Lily, her red hair blowing in the harsh wind. Her bright green eyes flashed in anger and were yet softened by her tears.

"I just don't understand you, Severus!" she cried. "Why did you do it? What on earth possessed you?"

Snape saw himself hastily roll down the sleeve of his left arm. "I… Lily, I…" he fumbled, nonplussed. "I thought… I thought you would…"

"What? Be proud?" she admonished, utterly reviled. "How could you?"

"But don't you see?" he entreated, refusing to give up. "They are revolutionary! A new order! The ministry is weak and failing, but this… This is the future! Our future…" It was an honest plea, the hope still gleaming in his stygian eyes.

Lily's anger diminished, turning to forlorn worry. "But, Severus… their treatment of Muggles!"

Severus's face turned sour, hatred overflowing in his words. "Hmph! Muggles like my father!" he spat.

"MUGGLES LIKE MY PARENTS!" she screamed, disgusted and horrified. "Or have you forgotten?" For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, both at a complete loss for words, the howling winter wind biting at their flushed faces. "I don't know who you are anymore, Severus Snape," she said as steadily as she could, despite the tears now rolling freely down her cheeks. "How could I ever marry a man I don't know?" And with one last heartbroken and forsaken look, Lily turned on her heel and fled into the castle. Severus simply stood there, frozen in disbelief and utterly destroyed. His hands limp by his sides, he let fall to the ground a small but beautiful diamond ring. Reflecting in the weak sunlight, it looked like a shining tear in the snow.

"No more, spirit. No more!" Snape was on the verge of tears, his harsh face wrenched in agony, but the hate glaring in his eyes prevented it. He rounded on the spirit, now fully his size, and braved the magnitude of her radiance. "What is your purpose," he demanded, "or do you just delight in torturing me? Tell me now or be gone for I have grown quite weary of your spiteful games!"

The spirit gave a heavy sigh and her light began to dim, slowly revealing every one of her features…

"I told you once before, Severus," …her bright red hair... "That I didn't know who you were," …her brilliant green eyes… "And now, even you don't know who you are."

"…Lily…" he breathed.

Snape reached out toward her, but as her light was failing, so was her presence, her image fading back and away. "How could you have forgotten, Severus?" she mourned, her voice echoing as if from miles away.

"No! Lily, wait!" he cried, running after her fleeting form. "Please don't! Lily, stay with me!"

"Try to remember, Severus," she said, a soft and pitying smile on her all but vanished face. "Please try."

"I'm sorry, Lily, I'm so sorry. Wait! LILY!" Snape tried to keep running, but the world suddenly heaved in front of him as he slipped on an unseen patch of ice. He lurched forward and fell, plunging through nothingness, landing with a soft thump in the quiet safety of his four-poster.


	4. STAVE THREE: the saint

**~STAVE THREE~**

**the saint**

Snape lay prostrate in his bed, clutching at the folds of his blankets as he tried to fight off the wracking sobs that threatened to overpower his body. With each shuddering breath, his burning face buried deep in the cool comfort of his sheets, he struggled to regain control.

Lily… she was there, he had seen her…

No, he told himself. Lily was gone. Lily was dead, and the dead don't return. Like so many before, this was just a dream, just a terrible haunted dream…

With a miserable groan, Snape turned over and wearily crawled under the covers, ready for what he was sure to be yet another sleepless night. Just as his heavy eyes began to close, though, the clock by his bed caught his attention. It read 4:06.

What on earth was going on? No time had passed! Even though he knew that dreams occurred in a matter of mere seconds, he felt he should have been asleep for at least an hour. Yet, there he was, in the same place and the same time as before. Before the clock turned back and chimed one, before that ghastly nightmare, he was back. Had none of it happened? Had it even been a dream at all? What kind of devilry was at work here?

There was no question about it at this point. All that he had seen, all the memories and the illusions… were simply that; an illusion. All of this was a trick, some new complex magic, most likely Dumbledore's doing. Snape was sure of it.

Making a mental note to set the headmaster's beard on fire, Snape shut his eyes tight and willed himself to fall asleep. As furious as he was, though, he couldn't help but wonder. Could it really be that simple? Was it truly just a trick? It would be so very much like Dumbledore to try to teach a moral lesson in such an unorthodox way. But, then again, Snape had never known him to be so underhanded. Sly and manipulative, yes, but this… this was just plain cruel.

His stomach turning sour, Snape shook off the idea. No, this was no trick. It couldn't be a trick. Demons such as these came only from his creation, from his dark dreams and memories. It was just his imagination, his mind driven to anarchy by inadequate rest and far too much to drink. With a heavy sigh, he banished all thoughts and rolled over to go to sleep.

The school bell chimed two.

Snape's eyes flew open as he sat bolt upright and watched as a warm red and golden glow filtered into his bedchamber from his sitting room. Suddenly, a familiar laugh rang out as clean and clear as the morning sun. His heart racing, Snape climbed slowly out of bed and cautiously approached the open doorway to the room, feeling the growing warmth of the glow as he neared.

The sight that met him was astounding. Piled high, from floor to ceiling and covering almost every surface of the room, was every sort of food imaginable. Overflowing from cornucopias or stacked high on golden and silver plates; pastries, pies, meats, cheeses, fruits, nuts, flagons of mead and sparkling goblets of wine. A merry fire blazed and crackled in the hearth as the smell of cedar and pine mingled with the luscious aroma of the feast. And by the fire, sitting in his, Snape's, chair, was Albus Dumbledore.

"Come in and know me better, man! Oh, I've always wanted to say that!" Dumbledore chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling in delight.

Snape was stunned, caught halfway between shock and furry.

"Severus?" he called gently. "Are you alright?"

"YOU!" he seethed.

"Me?" asked Dumbledore serenely.

"How… HOW are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"THIS! All this!" yelled Snape, his arms flailing madly about him. "How are… how dare… Why?"

Dumbledore just sat there, pleasantly staring back at him, and quirked an eyebrow.

"STOP IT!" Snape screamed in indignation. "Stop it NOW! Whatever it is you are doing, however it is you are doing it, stop it now and leave me alone!"

A look of dawning apprehension suddenly lit up the headmaster's face. "Oh, Severus," he said, laughing lightly. "I'm sorry, but I don't think you quite understand…"

"GET OUT!" Snape seized one of the heavy wine goblets off of the table next to him and, with as much force as he could muster, threw it straight at Dumbledore's head. It sailed right through him and bounced off the back of the armchair, spilling wine all over the floor and upholstery. Snape stood gaping, his throwing arm hanging limp by his side.

"Please do try to control your temper, Severus. I'm only here to help you."

"…What kind of sick game are you playing at, old man?" hissed Snape, his ire increasing. "You're trying to scare me, right? Trying to make a point, is that it? Such rot! What are you supposed to be then? Some kind of a ghost?" He snorted in disgust. "I'd say it's rather hard to pull that one off considering you're still ALIVE!"

"Oh, no Severus. I'm quite dead. Dead as a doornail, as a matter of fact, although how a doornail could ever be dead is beyond me…"

"Impossible," Snape said, his lips curling in a defiant sneer. "You were just here, a few measly hours ago…" But Dumbledore held up his hand and Snape fell silent, not out of obedience but out of shock, for his hand was horribly disfigured; withered and blackened, as if burned.

"Believe me, Severus. I am as dead as I ever could be."

"But… you were…" Snape spluttered. "How… you… but you're… you died?"

"Well, no, not yet," he explained, looking pensively up at the ceiling. "I mean, I am dead, yes, because I do die, at your hand no less. But not yet, so I'm not. Follow me?"

Snape was utterly confounded, his normally narrow eyes now practically bulging out of their sockets. "I… I killed you?"

"Will, Severus. You WILL kill me. But that is neither here nor there." Dumbledore got up and crossed over to Snape. "We have very little time and there is much to see." He held out his blackened right hand. "Come." But Snape simply stared at it, and then at Dumbledore, still thoroughly stunned.

"So… you… are a ghost?"

"No, thank heavens," Dumbledore chuckled. "You see, ghosts are restrained by time and space. I, however, am more of a, shall we say, free spirit?" He winked genially, raising his left arm towards the wall. "But for simplicity's sake," he said, and with a wave of his hand, the dungeon wall disappeared, revealing an opening to the dark outdoors, "you can just call me the ghost of Christmas present."

Dumbledore took hold of Snape's hand and slowly Snape felt his feet leave the floor. Instantly, his world began to shift, to turn and change, but not as before. This sensation was different. He felt weightless, not just merely suspended in mid air but, rather, as if he were made of air. And the world wasn't twisting and lurching violently as it had before. In fact, he came to realize, it wasn't moving at all. He was flying.

They rose quickly out of the dungeons and into the brilliant star-filled sky. Even though the nighttime air was brisk at best and the ghostly hand that held his was deathly cold, Snape was not affected by the chill. It was as if he had just downed a whole pint of butterbeer, guarding him internally from the frosty winter wind. As they soared over the treetops of the forbidden forest, climbing higher and higher into the sky, Snape detected a faint light creeping up over the horizon. The aura grew stronger and expanded as they flew towards it.

"Dumbledore!" Snape called, his hair whipping about him as they zoomed on, flying at a breakneck speed. "What is that?"

The old man laughed, his eyes alive with excitement. "It's the day, Severus, and we must rush to greet it!" He tightened his grip on Snape's hand and, with one last lurch of speed, they raced towards the sunrise. "Hang on now!" he yelled over the wind whistling in their ears.

And the sun broke over the land, brilliant and powerful. The light hit Snape with a palpable force. Momentarily blinded, he held onto Dumbledore's hand for dear life, his eyes shut tight against the glare.

"Severus! Open your eyes and see the world before you!"

Snape slowly and untrustingly opened his eyes. They widened in amazement as he took in the sight below him. He was hovering above a small unfamiliar town covered in sun-kissed snow. The thatched-roof homes had tall chimney stacks billowing pale smoke into the air and, in the distance, church bells were ringing in the new day. There were hundreds of people, surprisingly many for so small a place, greeting each other and laughing in the wake of morning.

"Where are we?" Snape asked as he watched a group of little boys chasing a dog along a snow covered street.

"It's not so much a question of where," he said, "but when."

Snape gave him a confused and somewhat irritated look.

Dumbledore relented. "It's Christmas morning, Severus."

Snape shifted his gaze back to the town below him and watched as its inhabitants made their way to the sparsely decorated tree in the center of the village square. Their look was meager, their clothes thin and patched, and the food they brought to the gathering was small. But the gleam in their eyes shone brighter than the sun on the snow and their voices, now raised up in a joyful chorus, were warmer than any hearth fire. It made no sense to Snape. These people had next to nothing and yet…

"We must keep moving, Severus," Dumbledore said, lightly tugging on Snape's arm as they began to fly off once more. "Christmas is, after all, everywhere."

The journey was spectacular. Dumbledore flew Snape all over the world, both magical and muggle, always chasing after the morning light.

They saw a large city with garishly festive decorations, once buzzing with activity, now lying quiet and still. All the people were snugly cloistered away in their homes, save for those serving in a soup kitchen across town; those who had left their own comfort to bring it to those who had none.

In another place, there was a hospital. A family was visiting a recovering friend and, across the hall, a mother was holding her newborn for the first time. On the floor below, a man dutifully read aloud to his comatose wife, holding her hand. The book fell to the floor as her hand lightly squeezed his.

Somewhere else, there was an orphanage. Children in tattered bedclothes were squealing in delight as they discovered the small toys and candy hidden in their worn-out stockings. From the corner of the room, the nurses watched on with a secret smile, their clothes just as worn and faded.

In a distant country, there was a war. The battle field was deserted. The opposing armies had laid down their weapons in honor of the day. Carrols and hymns of separate languages were sung across the trenches. Soldiers exchanged small gifts, a pocket knife or a few spare cigarettes, and told stories, longing for the world at home. Some even braved the journey into no-man's land, proudly greeting their enemy in a moment of truce.

In another land, there was a church. The sanctuary was packed with people, filling every seat and lining the walls. The choir sang triumphantly and the preacher spoke ardently. Children sitting on the floor watched with awe and, in the back, a young man in a suit gave up his seat so that an old woman in a moth eaten coat could rest her feet.

Far out at sea, there was a ship. Though the winds roared and the waves crashed, the crew below deck laughed and toasted to their health. They were a group of strangers, varying in age, hailing from foreign lands, never having met till a week before. Today, they were a family.

And somewhere, in a common neighborhood, in a common house, there was a common family opening presents. Traditional music was playing in the background. The father was taking pictures of his young daughter holding her new teddy bear by the tree. The mother sat in a chair by the window. As expected, the sight was happy, save for the look in their eyes. They were clouded, obscured by some heavy internal rumination. The mother attempted a smile when the daughter offered her bear to her, but it only made it half-way up her face.

There was a knock at the door. The father opened it. A young man stood waiting on the other side. The father looked into the young man's apologetic eyes, the very same as his own, and pulled him close, holding him tight. The mother came running to the door, tears spilling down her face, to hug her son. The daughter followed in her wake, the bear lying forgotten on the floor. She jumped and clapped, her eyes shining bright with joy at the return of her brother.

Watching from above, Snape didn't know what to say, or even if he should say anything at all. He was quite literally stunned. This was not the Christmas he knew, not at all.

"I had no idea," Snape started, struggling for words, "that… that it could be…"

"So wonderful?" Dumbledore offered.

Snape nodded lightly in agreement. His eyes were narrow, scrutinizing the scene that had him so enthralled and utterly bereft of speech.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "Hogwarts doesn't do too bad a Christmas either, you know. Why don't we go and see?"

But Snape didn't want to leave. He wanted to continue watching the reunion of the estranged son and his family. Snape felt a longing, a need to stay. He didn't know where it resonated, whether inside his head, deep in his gut, or maybe somewhere near his heart, but it was a strange feeling, almost painful, and he didn't want it to stop. For a moment he resisted the tugging on his arm as Dumbledore tried to urge his departure, but it was no use. The world was already flying beneath him.

The landscape suddenly became familiar once more. They zoomed over Hogsmead and across the great lake to Hogwarts. With a wave of Dumbledore's hand, the top of the castle disappeared and they entered the Great Hall through the enchanted ceiling, now robin's egg blue with swirling pearlescent clouds, misting the already high sun.

Snape had never seen the Great Hall look so festive. Granted, Hogwarts always celebrated Christmas in high fashion, but it appeared that all the stops had been pulled out this year. There was enchanted snow, a whole forest of Christmas trees, baubles, bubbles, tinsel and garland. Golden presents lay strewn about everywhere and a most massive feast lay on the table. Everyone was laughing, drinking and pulling crackers that emitted a loud snap, sparks and occasionally an odd hat with a stuffed vulture on top, which merited even more laughter.

"Oh, if only Severus were here," chuckled Dumbledore from the head of the table as he donned the awkward avian hat.

"Don't wish such a misfortune!" cried Trelawney, waving her hand in a warning fashion.

"Honestly, Albus," said a rather tipsy McGonagall. "He'd suck the fun right out of everything. He's such a little snot, ruining everyone's Christmas with his little storm cloud of chronic discontent."

"Now, Minerva, let's be fair," Dumbledore said delicately. "You know what he's been through. And besides, I can't imagine he's having a very happy Christmas on his own."

"Hmph! His choice…" McGonagall scoffed, taking a rather large sip of wine. "Personally, I think a rather good one, for ALL our sakes."

"Indeed!" squeaked Flitwick.

But Hagrid, occupying nearly half of one of the benches all on his own, shook his head in disagreement. "Nah… Come on now," he crooned, his face reddened with mead. "Dumbledore's righ'. I mean, sure, he's a bit…er… wha' is it the kids say… snarky?" McGonagall nearly choked on her drink as she snorted in laughter, but Hagrid ignored her. "An' he may be a little… erm… shor' tempered, but… I'm jus' sayin', he's not all tha' bad."

"You just say that because you're afraid of him," McGonagall grumbled under her breath.

"I am not!" A few people around the table had to stifle their laughter. Hagrid fought to maintain his position, despite the embarrassed flush stealing across his broad face. "I jus'… respect 'im is all. I mean…" he turned to the few students, mostly first years, seated at the table, "you lot aren't afraid of 'im… are yeh?"

There was silence at the table. None of the students replied save to shift uneasily in their seat or sheepishly look away. Many of them blushed. At that, the staff broke out into a riotous fit of laughter. Even Dumbledore laughed outright.

The spirit Dumbledore turned to look at Snape's reaction to the scene below and was surprised to see a smile stretched across his face.

"Why, Severus, I do believe you are smiling!" Dumbledore teased.

In a flash, the smile disappeared and Snape returned with his usual sardonic sneer, though the corners of his lips still seemed to curve up into an unmistakable grin. "I was just thinking," he drawled, his attention now back to the feast, "how ironic it is that I can bring so much 'festive joy' by being such a… what did she call me? A little snot?" Snape chuckled darkly, the full smile reappearing once more. "Remind me one day to _accidentally _drop veritaserum into her morning tea… ought to show her just how much 'fun' I can be."

Dumbledore just rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Let's go. There is still more to see." As they flew away, Snape noticed how the sky was darkening. The day was slowly but surely reaching its end. Before Snape could take into account the significance of this fact, however, they abruptly came to a halt, landing solidly on a snow covered lawn outside an oddly lopsided and ramshackle house. Snape surveyed the area, unsure of his location. He noted the home's disheveled but cozy appearance, the old Wellington boots by the door, and several old rusted cauldrons strewn across the yard. He tried to read the crooked sign stuck in the ground, but it was so frosted over it was indecipherable.

"Where on earth are we now?" Snape asked in bewilderment.

Dumbledore had no need to answer. In the next moment a loud bang issued from inside the house, causing it to sway threateningly.

"GEORGE!!!" bellowed a voice from within.

"It wasn't me, it was Fred!"

"Was not! I swear, of the two of us, you are definitely the evil twin!"

"Will you two just cut it OUT?"

A frown fixed itself upon Snape's face. "Weasleys…" He turned to Dumbledore, and said almost pleadingly, "Must we?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Yes, we must. Come on now."

Grousing all the way, Snape was practically dragged inside. He cringed to see so many Weasleys at once. Everyone was there, even Miss Granger and…

"Potter." Snape snarled, his face turning sour.

"Severus…" Dumbledore warned, looking at him from over the top of his half-moon spectacles. But Snape stared back just as hard, his dark eyes narrowed in a defiant challenge. "Oh, for goodness sake!" Dumbledore cried in exasperation, looking extraordinarily cross. "You are by far the most stubborn thing I've ever met. After all this, after all you've seen, have you honestly not learned a single thing?"

Snape blinked, taken aback by the headmaster's sudden change in demeanor. After a while, though, Dumbledore's indignation decreased. "Try, Severus," he sighed. "Please, just try. Watch. Listen. Learn."

Snape scowled in resentment, his arms crossed defensively across his chest. This was the very last place he wanted to be, surrounded by such a rowdy ragamuffin gaggle of unruly scallywags. What could he possibly learn from these inane people, least of all from Potter, the boy who whined incessantly? But still, despite his loathing and previous protestations, he could not help but wonder what it was that Dumbledore knew and he didn't. And so, curiosity outweighing dislike, he remained, resignedly watching in keen silence.

"Alright now, everyone, take a seat," Mr. Weasley said. "Do you need any help, Molly?"

"No, dear, I've got it." The crowded table broke out into applause as Mrs. Weasley placed the turkey in the center. The bird, Snape observed, was rather small, as was the available portions of food on the table. In fact, everything in the creaky old house was too small for such a large family, not to mention guests. But no one seemed to notice.

"It's such a meager feast," Snape murmured to Dumbledore, momentarily forgetting he could neither be seen nor heard. "Why not just stay at Hogwarts?"

"There's more to Christmas than food, Severus," he replied. "Look."

"Happy Christmas, everyone," Mr. Weasley beamed, the cheer passing around the scrubbed little table. "Dig in!"

The meal lasted for hours. Whether it was magic or not, Snape could not tell, but the food seemed in endless supply. Or, maybe, it was that more time was spent in conversation that actual eating? They did talk, and laugh, quite a lot, regaling each other with stories of long ago, toasting each other's health, making wishes on the future and blessings on the past. Though the fire in the oven had long since disappeared, their very smiles seemed to give warmth to the tiny kitchen.

And there it was, he realized; the look that he had repeatedly seen on his journey. He saw it, the gleam in the eyes of the reunited family, the joy in the orphaned children's voices, the shining serenity in the soldier's face, all there in this one little room. It was a look he was not accustomed to seeing and with it came a feeling he could neither label nor comprehend.

This time he saw them, all of them, for who they were, not as students or parents, but as a united entity, collaborative and whole; a family. It was warm, and caring, and very personal. Snape almost felt embarrassed to be in their presence, that he was not worthy to be included. He turned to Dumbledore, hoping to leave when he heard, of all things, a toast in his name.

"To Professor Snape!" He spun around. It was Hermione and although she seemed sincere enough, he couldn't help but notice the pained and almost gagged expressions on the surrounding faces. "In gratitude for his uncharacteristic leniency," she continued, "without which we would not be here today."

"Leniency?" inquired Mrs. Weasley.

"Oh, well, maybe more like negotiability…" Hermione said, thoughtfully biting her lower lip.

"Yes, but for what?"

"For giving us three a day off from our deten… ouch, Ron that was my leg!"

Hermione glared across the table at Ron who was white as a sheet, but her scowl was nothing compared to the steely glint in Mrs. Weasley's eyes.

Aghast, Hermione hissed, "You haven't told her?"

Ron's teeth were clenched. "I was going to wait till _after_ dinner…"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" Mrs. Weasley bristled. "Did you get detention… again?"

"It wasn't my fault!" he cried indignantly. "Snape just has it out for us!"

"First of all, it's _Professor_ Snape and, secondly, he does NOT have it out for you. You and you alone are responsible for your actions."

"But he's just so awful!"

"No, Ron," Mr. Weasley interceded. "He just wants you to succeed, and the best way he knows how is through facing confrontation."

"Well he certainly could be less of a Scrooge about it…" he mumbled, irascibly picking at his food. "It's just not fair."

"Exactly!" said Mr. Weasley, slapping the table. "That's the way life works. It isn't fair. You can't expect life to provide second chances. Keep the hope, yes of course, but never ever _expect_ anything more than what you put in yourself. Life can be very unforgiving, especially now, and we all have to be ready. Because when the time comes…"

"Arthur, don't," Mrs. Weasley protested softly. "It's Christmas…"

"But they need…"

Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat, giving her husband a pointed look in Harry's direction. He had gone rather pale, his downcast eyes staring at his unfinished plate.

"Er… well," Mr. Weasley flustered, "…what I meant was… um…" An awkward silence filled the air as he struggled for the words to say.

Everyone was looking at Harry now and, from the apparent blush tingeing his ears, he was wishing they weren't.

"Hey, mate," Ron said, nudging him slightly with his elbow, "don't worry about it. We've got your back."

"And we always will," Hermione piped in.

"Yeah," said Ron. "Whether it's fighting You-Know-Who, or putting up with Snape and his shi-"

"Ron!" yelled Mrs. Weasley.

"…shhhenanigans," he finished with a smirk.

Harry gave a slight chuckle at his quick save.

"Or whatever," Hermione said, benignly rolling her eyes. "We're here for you, Harry."

"Me too," said Ginny.

"And us!" the twins avowed in unison.

"We're all here for you, Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley said affectionately.

"No matter what," Mr. Weasley confirmed.

Harry looked up, obviously much happier now, braver seeming too, if not somewhat embarrassed. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you all. It's more than I could ever hope for."

Ron raised his cup in cheers. "Happy Christmas, Harry."

"Yes!" Mr. Weasley said, raising his own glass. "Happy Christmas!"

Harry smiled. "Happy Christmas."

All the glasses clinked merrily around the table, continuing the toast and, before too long, the dinner had picked up its merriment once again.

Snape stood transfixed by the scene in front of him. He wanted to believe with all his might that the heat in his face came solely from the setting sun shining in through the kitchen window. Without looking at Dumbledore, he asked, "Tell me, does the boy live or die?"

"That I cannot say, Severus," Dumbledore sighed. "I only know what lies… well, technically, what _lay _ahead of me in my life. But I do see an empty chair at the Gryffindor table, and a wand without an owner. If things remain as they are then, yes, I do believe Harry will die." His voice changed, harsher and cutting. "But he should consider himself lucky, right? Lucky to be so blissfully removed from the torment of this world?"

The echo of his own words cut through Snape like a knife, but he said nothing. He just continued to look at Harry, his face impassive and his eyes lacking the usual glint of malice normally reserved for the child of James Potter. He stared unblinking for what seemed like ages, the room slowly darkening as the sun disappeared behind the horizon.

Eventually, the whole place dimmed to blackness, the kitchen and everyone in it vanishing completely. Only the sad image of youthful optimism remained, still etched into Snape's mind's eye, as he stood in utter darkness.

With a start, however, he realized that nothing was happening. He wasn't going anywhere. There was a fade-out, but not a fade-in.

"Dumbledore, where…?"

But he was gone, leaving Snape alone in the impenetrable blackness.

"This is where I leave you, Severus," Dumbledore's voice rang out, sounding both near and very far at the same time. "You are departing from my realm and venturing into another's."

Snape felt the panic rising in his chest. "You mean… the future?"

"Go forth, and know him better man!"


	5. STAVE FOUR: the demon

**~STAVE FOUR~**

**the demon**

Snape stood alone, waiting in the dark… but nobody came.

The gloom pressed in around him, cold and clammy. Had there been any light in this forsaken place Snape was sure he could have seen his breath before his face. He reached out, searching blindly for something or anything, but there was nothing, simply nothing.

What was to happen next? Where was he to go?

"Or…" he thought, "is there simply nothing more to come?"

Snape shuddered and threw away the thought. No, he was here for a reason. There was something he needed to know and understand. There was some lesson that he had to learn, and he could think of no better teacher than himself.

And so, with a deep and steadying breath, Snape began to move forward through the void.

He walked slowly, trepidation causing his nerves to heighten miserably, fearing every next step to be met with nothing below. He counted his paces, trying to measure his distance and time. After ten paces, there was still nothing. Twenty paces… nothing. Thirty, forty, fifty… His paces quickened, reckless and feverish, matching the frantic heart pounding painfully in his chest. One hundred… one hundred fifty… two hundred paces… The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he broke out into a cold sweat. Was there no end to this place? He began to run; all caution be damned. Three hundred… four hundred…

On and on he ran, his arms outstretched like a man possessed, fighting and defying the emptiness around him. But, with a startled grunt, Snape suddenly stumbled and lurched forward. Nearly collapsing as he faltered in his steps, he slowed to a halt. He doubled over, his hands on his knees, and gasped for air but even that seemed to lack in the oblivion. Nothing existed here, nothing but the cold and suffocating darkness.

Shivering violently, Snape clung to his sweat soaked nightshirt. He was lost, alone, and now doomed to die in this bitterness. He sank to his knees and cursed himself for his folly, for thinking that he was capable of competing with schemes greater than his own and for still so tenaciously wanting to try. His face wretched and spiteful, he cried out to the shadows in heated agony and struck at the ground with the full force of his body. Heavy and tired, his prostrate form slowly submitted to exhaustion and, with one last sigh of defeat, he breathed…

"Please."

Somewhere, out in the vast nowhere, he heard it; an echo, roaring soft like thunder and growing louder. Snape looked up and paused, listening. Something was coming. He felt the space around him quiver as the sound vibrated through the dark. It rose louder and louder, a growling grating sound, rolling towards him. Something suddenly grazed the fingertips of his outstretched hand and Snape recoiled with a hiss. The noise stopped.

He sat back on his heels, hardly daring to breathe and waited for the thing to move again. Nothing happened. Very slowly, after a few moments, he inched forward in a crawl, cautiously feeling out in the darkness for the thing that had touched him. And he found it. Sighing with relief, an odd smile spread across his face as he picked it up. Snape didn't need to see in order to know what he was holding. The feel of his own wand in his hand was all too easily remembered.

Standing up, he raised his wand and muttered,

"Lumos."

The light illuminated the void and Snape froze, his heart plummeting into his stomach. He wasn't alone.

Dementors, thousands of them, stood towering around him. He was surrounded. Snape spun around, wand aloft, ready for the fight of his life, but they did not advance. They just stood there watching him, their black cloaks fluttering silently without wind. Hesitantly, Snape lowered his wand. He understood now. The despair, the cold, the darkness… they had been there all along. They were waiting for him.

"I am Severus Snape," he announced, his voice cracking in the effort. He felt foolish saying it, talking to dementors, but somehow he knew this was what he was supposed to do. "I am here for a reason, though that reason is beyond me," he continued, his courage building. "I need to know what to do, where to go…" Snape paused. "I _want _to know." The dementors began to stir, ominously shifting about in their circle. Snape's stomach gave an uneasy turn as he watched them look around at each other as if deciding his fate.

"Please…" he said quietly, almost inaudibly, and the dementors stilled, all of them looking at Snape once more. "Please," he repeated. "Help me."

Very slowly, in one fluid motion like steam wafting through the cold night air, they turned as one, their glances now fixed on a lone dementor standing near the outer edge of the group. With a gasping, rattling breath, it parted the circle and began to glide towards Snape.

As it approached, the glow at the end of Snape's wand seemed to dim and, in the failing light, he began to hear them; the voices. Somewhere, from either deep inside his head or calling out from the darkness around him, he heard the terrible wailing of misery and suffering. It grew louder and louder as the dementor neared. The cold became almost tangible, weighing down on him like lead. Snape was shivering unbearably but he held his ground, staring into the shadow of the dementor's face, until it came to a stop right in front of him.

With some effort, Snape swallowed and asked, "Are you the one that I was told would come to me?" The dementor tipped its head in reply. "Please, show me so that I may learn."

The dementor stepped aside and swept out its draped arm, gesturing for Snape to lead on. Snape took a moment, surveyed the dementor standing away to his left, the gap in the ring of dementors ahead of him, and the darkness that lay beyond. Clutching his wand at his side, he made to move forward.

But he couldn't. He couldn't lift his feet.

With a gasp, Snape suddenly realized his body was freezing. He struggled to break free but the effect continued, like a slow acting Petrificus Totalus curse, creeping up his body until he was completely petrified as if encased in ice. He couldn't move a thing, save his eyes which were darting about rapidly in a mad panic. The dementor lay just beyond his peripheral vision, but he could still hear it breathing and knew, judging from how the light at the end of his wand was soon all but extinguished, that it was moving closer. Straining his eyes, Snape was able to see that the dementor was now practically beside him, standing just behind his left shoulder, its cold rasping breath beating down his neck. Snape watched in silent horror as it slowly raised its arm and placed its ghastly grey hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly.

His eyes snapped forward as, in the next instant, the circle of dementors began to spin around him like the winds of a hurricane. The combined sounds of their haunted breathing whistled like an approaching train. The ground beneath him began to shake and glowing flashes lit up the darkness like lightning, casting strange shadows on the blur of dementors. Snape saw images in the shadows, people and places that he thought he knew but could not remember. They swirled about him like smoke until he could hardly see. The wailing voices inside his head were practically screaming.

But then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. In a burst of motion, like the popping of a balloon, all matter of light, shape, and sound exploded into place. The raging cacophony became faint and familiar; murmurs of idle chatter, tinkling store bells, rain falling lightly into a slush of snow. Shadows turned to figures; cobblestone streets, shop windows, and people in cloaks scurrying from one building to the next.

It took Snape half a second to realize he was now standing in the heart of Diagon Alley. Yet everything looked strange, as if ripped from a dream. Images constantly fell in and out of focus, all color seemed muted, and strangest of all, the very air felt stifled with tension. It seemed to Snape as though the entire world was holding its breath.

Looking around, Snape noted several papers littering the street, many of them heralding the sign of the Daily Prophet. A soaked poster tacked to the wall next to him carried a banner that read "The Success of Change!" The ink had bled so badly that the rest of the poster was indecipherable. Ahead of him, a group of people were gathered around a wall covered in signs proclaiming "New Politics Resurrect Society" and "Ministry More Stable than Ever." At the front of the crowd, a man dressed in lavish robes of emerald green and black velvet stood addressing the others with audacious regality. Snape recognized Lucius Malfoy instantly.

As if by command of his own will, the world began to move forward for Snape. He didn't budge an inch, nor could he if he tried. The dementor's grip still rendered him immobile, but the image ahead was slowly brought directly to him. With a jolt, Snape suddenly thought he had stumbled upon a covert Death Eater gathering as he recognized several of the people in the group. He looked closer and his stomach turned. They each wore a Daily Prophet reporter badge.

"After such a trying year, sir," one of the reporters called out sycophantically "one would assume that you would be ready to retire from politics, yet my sources tell me you're spearheading yet another reformation project in the upcoming months! How do you manage?"

Malfoy looked indecently smug. "Simple persistence," he said. "Some things are just worth the pain of commitment." He tempered a suffering expression, his eyes cast heavenwards. The false humility did not become him. "Some things are just worth fighting for."

Several cameras flashed. "Mr. Malfoy, you speak so often of the importance of change," said a squat female reporter near his elbow, "of how it affects us all and paves the road for future generations. Would you say that the new policies have been productive in the education of our children?"

"Assuredly so." More cameras flashed. "As a newly reinstated Board of Governors member and, of course, a deeply concerned parent I have never been more occupied with the activities at Hogwarts. Ever since last May, what with the Headmaster's unexpected and utterly tragic death," his face belied his somber tone, "the school has been subject to many reformations. It's been difficult, yes, even tumultuous, but change has come and things could not be better.

"In the wake of such activity, though, certain things have had to take a back seat. Quidditch, for example, is only just now being reinstated. A motion that, I'm sure, many students are grateful for, my son being no exception." The reporters laughed. "More importantly, the school will also be holding a special Christmas memorial service this evening for the fallen Headmaster as the events surrounding his death, some feel, did not allow time for adequate mourning. It's open to the public should anyone wish to attend."

"Will you be there sir?"

"Unfortunately, no," Malfoy sighed flatly. "My involvement with the ministry is very time consuming, especially with so many underlings still trying to usurp our authority. In fact, I'm already late for a meeting so, if you'll kindly excuse me…"

"One more question, Governor!" shouted a young reporter from the back, straining to see over the crowd. "Rumor has it that you have been asked to be the next Hogwarts Headmaster. Is that true?"

Malfoy smirked. "It is true that I am among the few up for the position. The executive decision is, of course, left to the Minister of Magic but I feel confident that he knows who is best for the job." With a wink that bore none of the warmth typical to the action, he turned on his heel and walked away.

The crowd slowly began to disperse but the reporters remained, talking quietly as they packed their gear.

"Are you going tonight?" asked the squat reporter to her taller associate.

"What? To the funeral?" he replied, raising a heavy eyebrow. "Nah, never liked him. Meddlesome old fool, he was. A terrible headmaster, too."

"I agree," she returned. "Nowhere near strong enough."

"Is it true that he was killed by one of his own?" The younger reporter piped up.

"That's the rumor," mumbled the tall one. "But, if you ask me, he was never really one of anybody." Barking with coarse laughter, the group departed down the street and disappeared into the blurring haze.

Snape's head was spinning. He couldn't believe it. Malfoy was in the ministry, Death Eaters were in the Daily Prophet, and Dumbledore was… dead. What's more, if what Snape had been told earlier was true, he was the one responsible.

The dread in his stomach turned solid though as he saw a large sign plastered on the wall behind where the reporters had been standing. "Muggle-Born Registration Act" ran across the top of the sign in bold black letters. The proclamation listed a number of witches and wizards to be brought in for questioning. Several names had been scratched out with a red line. Several others bore scorch marks, suggesting they had been blasted out. The official Ministry of Magic crest emblazoned the bottom corner accompanied by a large sharp signature. Snape felt his heart stop as read the name; _Lord Voldemort, Minster of Magic. _

"Impossible…" Snape thought. "This is completely impossible. There is no way…" His body felt numb. This was all wrong. It was too soon. The fight couldn't possibly be over.

"Malfoy!" The thought rang through Snape's head like a gunshot, shaking him out of his stunned reverie. "Usurpers… Underlings… Malfoy mentioned trouble at the Ministry. It isn't over…" Snape felt the dementor's grip tighten on his shoulder, as though it heard him. "It can't be over… Please, tell me it isn't over."

Once more, the world transformed itself before his eyes. Rolling swirling images of grey and ash swept around him until it stilled into place. The surroundings that came to life around him were easily remembered; an expansive lawn littered with random junk, a towering old tumbledown house, its chimney wafting the smell of roasted turkey over the crisp winter air.

"Ah, yes, of course," Snape mused wickedly, "The Weasley household, epicenter of mayhem and rebellion." Relief washed over him. If anyone were to put a stink on the Dark Lord's plans, the Weasleys were a surefire candidate. But something wasn't right. Snape paused, cold apprehension dawning. "It's quiet…"

Willing his way forward, Snape moved the world around him to the inside of the Burrow. The once bustling home was as still as stone. It seemed almost empty. No one was sitting at the table which was completely bare save for a small clutter of official looking documents bearing the Ministry's emblem. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were alone in the kitchen. Snape had never seen Arthur Weasley so gaunt, looking as though he hadn't eaten or slept in weeks. Molly was bent over the stove preparing the Christmas dinner. Large tears were rolling silently down her pale cheeks.

The backdoor opened. Snape recognized their eldest child, Bill, as he stepped over the threshold and into the kitchen, shaking snow from his mane of red hair.

"We got another one," he said stone-faced, holding up an opened letter with the Ministry's seal gleaming on the front. "A fine 'Merry Christmas' from you local Minister of Magic." He threw it disgustedly onto the pile on the table. "Dad, you're going to have to go back eventually. Ignoring them won't make them change their minds."

"The letters request that I return as soon as possible," Mr. Weasley said staring out the kitchen window. "They _request_ that I accept their offer."

"Dad, this many letters isn't a request. It's a demand."

Mr. Weasley did not reply. Sighing heavily, Bill turned to his mother. "Mum, is Percy home yet?"

"No, dear," she said, her voice squeaking in the effort to keep back her tears. "He's still at the Ministry with your brother."

Bill gently put his hand on her shoulder. "Mum, are you crying?"

"It's just the light from the fire," she sniffed "I'm ok, darling. Really." She gave him a weak but reassuring smile and turned back to cooking. "Any luck with Charlie?"

"No," said Bill. "Security is too tough. I pulled as many strings as I could, but we just couldn't get him an entry visa. He'll have to stay in Romania." Looking askance at his father he murmured, "Mum, we're running out of time. Things are getting too dangerous. We have to move. I've got connections with people in Egypt. If we packed up by tomorrow, nobody would…"

"It's not going to happen, son," Mr. Weasley said from the window. "Ron won't have it. To him, leaving would mean more than defeat. He won't stop fighting, not while he thinks there's still a chance."

Snape perked up at this. "There…" he thought, his spirits building like fire in his chest. "Right there, proof it isn't over."

Behind him, Snape heard the front door open and close. "Mother? Father?"

"We're in the kitchen," Mrs. Weasley called out.

Percy Weasley rounded the corner. "Sorry I'm late. I had to take care of something important. Where's Ron? I need to speak with him."

Mrs. Weasley gasped and dropped her ladle with a clang. She spun around, her face white. "He's not with you?"

Percy's eyes widened. "No, he left the Ministry over an hour ago. He said he'd meet me at home."

Instinctively, Mrs. Weasley shot a glance to her clock on the wall. The hand that was labeled "Ron" was pointed directly at "Home".

"The clock isn't broken, Molly," Mr. Weasley said, not taking his eyes away from the window. "Ron is home. I see him. He's been standing outside in the yard for nearly an hour now."

Moving quickly, Bill left the kitchen and out the front door with a relieved but infuriated grunt.

Mrs. Weasley closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her hand over her heart. Her eyes were shining when she turned to Percy. "Will you please go call the others down?" she asked. "Dinner is almost ready." As soon as he had left the room, Mrs. Weasley moved over to her husband, grasping his hand from behind. He didn't move. "Arthur?"

"I'm sorry, Molly," he whispered, finally turning to look at her. His eyes were terrible. "It's all my fault. I should have…"

"No, my love, never," she cried wrapping her arms around him. He held her tight with his head atop hers, tears falling into her hair.

Snape couldn't stand it. That scene wasn't for him to witness and propriety demanded his removal. Unable to turn his head to look away, he willed the room to move and escaped into the hall. How did it come to this? What on earth had happened?

A muffled shout from near the staircase suddenly caught his attention. Turning the space around him, Snape saw Percy backing away from one of the twins, Fred he assumed, judging from the large golden "F" on his red sweater. They were glaring at each other, Fred more defiantly than Percy who just looked utterly shocked.

"Are you mad?" Percy hissed at his younger brother. "Take that off before Mom or Dad sees!"

"Why? So they don't have to think about it? He's all they ever see when they look at me anyway." He turned to leave but Percy jumped in front of him, blocking his way.

"I'm not letting you through until you take it off," demanded Percy.

"No! He stays with me!"

Quick as lighting, Percy had his wand out pointed directly at his brother. "Don't think I won't force you out of it, George." he said steadily.

For a moment they stood stock still, staring at each other.

Snape was confused. "…George…" he deliberated, "not Fred…?" He felt all the air inside him vanish as he understood. "They lost one."

"Give it to me, George," Percy said in an undertone. "Don't make this Christmas harder than it has to be."

George sighed roughly and took off the sweater, throwing it in Percy's face. "Why don't you miss him?"

He then turned on his heel and stormed down the hall and into the kitchen, brushing past Bill and Ron who had just come in from the outside. Bill sent Ron, wearing his brother's coat around his shoulders, into the kitchen and turned a worried glance to Percy. He held up the sweater, giving Bill a pained look. Bill just shook his head and ushered him into the kitchen.

Snape followed. Whether it was morbid curiosity or a secretly growing affection for the bleeding hearts before him, he didn't know, but he wanted to watch. He felt as though, by listening, he might somehow be able to help. It was a ridiculous desire, and he knew it, but deep inside he felt obliged. Deep inside, he felt he was to blame.

"Where's Ginny?" Bill asked Percy in a whisper.

"She's not coming down. She's inconsolable."

Bill nodded solemnly. "I know. She misses him more than any of us, I think."

"We all miss him," said Percy, sitting down next to George, "just as much as we miss Fred."

George turned a set of miserable eyes upon Percy, but smiled faintly underneath.

Snape was at a loss. "Miss who?" he wondered, panicking. "Don't tell me they lost another one." He began to count off the number of Weasley children in his head, all the while absently watching George at the table. His hair was much longer than he remembered, resembling Bill now more so than Fred. Just barely visible underneath his locks, Snape also noticed a large scar running up the side of his neck towards his ear. He didn't remember that either.

Reaching across the table, George poked at his youngest brother. "Oi, Ron. You frozen or something?"

"No," he said vacantly.

"So tell us then! How did it go?"

Ron didn't look up. He just sat staring at the table as if he was trying to see through it. Percy leaned over to George and whispered, "We waited in line all day. Never once got to speak to a real official. They said we had the wrong papers."

"They wouldn't even let me see her," said Ron quietly.

Mr. Weasley walked away from his spot at the window to place a tender hand on his son's shoulder. "I know it hurts," he said, "but you've come so far all ready. You can't give up now."

"No, Dad," said Ron, his jaw set. "Her hearing is tomorrow and after that…" He couldn't bring himself to say the rest. Instead, he folded his arms on the table, burying his face in defeat.

"Is there really nothing we can do?" Mr. Weasley asked Percy.

He shook his head. "I've tried everything I can think of," he said. "I pulled as many strings as I could, brought up old debts and unreturned favors, I even played the blood card." Percy grimaced slightly at his own words. "Nothing worked. It's beyond politics, at this point. We're being targeted."

A small hiccup issued from over near the stove. Mrs. Weasley's shoulders were shaking slightly as she cooked. With a steadying breath, she turned to look over her shoulder. Her eyes were wet but alive, like fire glimmering behind a wall of ice. "Don't you worry, Ronald Billius Weasley," she said, "we'll find a way. We'll get Hermione out of there soon. Very soon. You'll see…"

Ron still didn't look up, his fists clenched atop the table.

Shifting slightly, Percy cleared his throat. "Ron," he said. "…here." He passed him a thin rectangular box. It was unadorned save for a piece of twine tied around its middle. "Not everything that goes into the ministry these days is gone for good."

All eyes in the kitchen turned to Ron as he carefully opened the box. Inside, resting on a piece of coarse white cloth, was a wand. It was a rather standard issue wand, Snape noticed, about eleven inches long and made of holly.

"How did you get it?" Ron exclaimed. Everyone's mouth was hanging open in shock except for Percy whose bore a slight smirk.

"I snuck it out," he said. "Transfigured an old quill to look like it and made the switch while the guards were distracted." He turned to George. "Used the last of your decoy detonators, sorry." George almost laughed.

"But what if you're caught?" Mrs. Weasley said aghast. "What if they find out it was you?"

"Then I'll have hell to pay," he said with a shrug. "It's not as if I'm not already paying enough."

"Percy," breathed Ron. "Take it back. You can't… I can't…"

"I don't care," said Percy. "It belongs here, with you. Har-" Percy paused, looking down. "He would have wanted you to have it."

"Yes," Ron muttered. "Harry would have wanted that."

The table sat in still silence, lost in thought.

Snape, however, was reeling. This was madness. It was a world gone wrong, like as if he had slipped from a dream and into a nightmare. Voldemort was in power. The Weasley's were torn apart. And Potter was…

He watched as Ron moved from the table and over to the mantle above the fireplace, ceremoniously placing Harry's wand on top. In the very center of the mantle, it was flanked by two moving pictures; one with the twins in their lettered sweaters, the other with Harry, Ron and Hermione in their school uniforms, hardly into their third year.

Snape didn't want to believe it. It couldn't be true. But it was. Harry Potter was dead. The son of James Potter and Lily Evans was gone. The boy who lived…

"But this can't be the end," Snape thought. "Not like this." He struggled to comprehend the moment. His heart was racing, his mouth was dry, but his eyes were hard. A new feeling was stirring inside him. "Potter wasn't the end. Others are still fighting, right?" The inquiry, though aimed at the dementor behind him, echoed most loudly in his own ears. "Voldemort isn't completely untouchable. He can still be challenged. The war can still be won! What's going on? Why aren't people still fighting? Doesn't anyone have any…HOPE?"

Hope. The word resounded in his head, reaching down into his heart and through every fiber of his being. Hope. He had hope!

He could have laughed. Or cried. Or both, he didn't know. It was as if a flickering candle had just roared to life in a burst of sparks. Of all things, of all people! He, Severus Snape, had hope!

Suddenly, though, the flame inside his chest began to smolder, smoke billowing black underneath. "What's wrong with these people?" he thought. His mind had turned dark, his inner voice growling and angry. "If I can have hope, then why can't they? Where the hell is The Order? Aren't they doing anything? Where's McGonagall? Where's Shaklebolt?" The rage of his thoughts was making the room spin lopsidedly, like a broken merry-go-round. "Where's crazy Mad-Eye or that bull-headed Sirius Black? What about the dizzily nostalgic Lupin or even Nymphadora Tonks, that oaf of an Auror? Where are they? What are they doing? Where am I?!"

In a snap, the world began to warp once more and the Weasley's vanished in a spiraling grey blur. Snape didn't want to go, but the thought had propelled him and he couldn't avoid his destination. Slowly his view shifted back into focus and he found himself standing at the base of a hill encircled by an old splintering fence.

The light was dim, already past sunset, but the glow from beyond the horizon reached through the barren trees beyond the hill, throwing dark red and violet hues against the snow. Wind whipped through the branches and the light danced, gleaming like blood on the ice. The air around the hill was hushed, though the trees creaked and the wind moaned.

A rickety old sign hung lifelessly from the gate, occasionally banging sharply against its holdings with the passing wind. In peeling letters was written, "Hogsmead Cemetery." A secondary sign on a stake shoved into the frozen ground near the mud path read: Hogwarts Memorial Service, 5 pm, Visitors Welcome.

Snape remembered Lucius Malfoy and the interview…

"Dumbledore's funeral," he thought. "Why on earth would I be here for that?"

This place, though Snape had seen it before, felt exceedingly unnatural, as though it was watching him. He wanted to turn away, but he was no longer in control of this world. With the dementor still at his back, he slowly climbed up the hill. He wasn't dragged, nor was he pushed but his movement was not of his own volition. The yard was unkempt. Lichen covered gravestones littered the lawn at odd angles. Their inscriptions were weathered away by time and forgotten. As he approached the top of the hill, Snape noticed a few old mismatched chairs stationed in the shadow of a large birch tree, its massive limbs swaying slightly in the wind.

Snape came to a stop under the tree. Ahead of him, an austere black tombstone jutted out of the ground, silhouetted in the dusk's violent light. There were no footprints in the snow.

As thrown as he was, Snape refused to believe it. This wasn't possible.

He didn't want this. He wanted to shut his eyes. He wanted to lie. He wanted to be flippant and snide and to say, "What a sad turnout for poor dead Dumbledore…"

He wanted to run.

"No," his mind said defiantly to the dementor gripping his shoulder. "I won't go."

The dementor released its hold.

The move surprised Snape. Instantly, his body unfroze and he fell forward to his knees in shock. Ever at the ready, though, he spun around with his wand held high, prepared to face his captor. Snape regretted it immediately. The world around him blurred horribly at his sudden movement, nauseously dizzy and vaporous as if threatening to fade away. Snape, also, was suddenly aware that he could no longer feel the ground. He feared his legs had gone numb after being frozen for so long, but the effect was total. The snow didn't crunch under his weight, nor did the winter wind bite at his face. He was wholly separate from this world and felt as though he were falling weightlessly through dark clouds.

The dementor looked down upon Snape, waiting. Slowly, as the ancient tree groaned in the wind, Snape made it to his feet, standing toe to toe and eye to eye with the dementor. Its breath rasped in response like a growl; a challenge.

He simply stared into the impossible blackness of its hood. For all the conflicting emotions that raged inside of him, Snape could only muster himself to spit out one tormented word:

"Why?"

The dementor pointed in reply over Snape's shoulder. Snape looked back at the dark tombstone and a deadening chill coursed through him. He knew he could not ignore what lay ahead of him. He began to walk.

It wasn't easy. His feet were heavy. The mists of the world clung to him and impeded his steps, feeling as though he were trudging through very thick mud. More than that, though, his mind was slowly regaining clarity. His thoughts fell into place and his tongue loosened. Snape paused and turned back to the dementor.

"Before I go any further," he said, "answer me just this one question. Are these events certain? Are these shadows truly what _will_ be, or are they merely the images of what _might_ be?"

The dementor gave no reply. It continued only to point its grizzly finger at the grave.

Snape's lips were so thinly drawn they seemed almost to disappear. He turned and continued to walk forward.

"I know, all actions in life have consequences," Snape said more so to himself than to the dementor behind him. "Every foul act begets a certain justified end, just as, so it seems, no good deed goes unpunished…" Snape stopped again, mere feet from the gravestone. He turned back, his eyes pleading despite the heavy scowl etched into his face. "But a departure from those acts can absolve past misdeeds. Am I right?"

Again, the dementor did not answer.

"Obviously you're not the talkative sort," Snape said. Beads of sweat were beginning to form near his temples. "The future can hardly be set in stone, not when man can change himself and thus his ending. Just tell me! Tell me this is so, Spirit, and show me how!"

The dementor was immovable as ever, its finger taut with emphasis.

Snape turned to the stone in the ground and crept forward, trembling as he went. He lit his wand, but it cast no light onto the marker. He knelt down in front of it, his face inches away, and read out of the darkness:

Severus Snape

January 9, 1960- May 1, 1998

Potions Master

And Hogwarts Headmaster

"I… I… no, this can't be!" Snape exclaimed.

Somewhere in the distance, bells were tolling. They echoed low and deep; not Christmas bells, but mourning bells. Snape buried his head in his hands and was overcome. He howled in despair.

"Why?" he cried, his voice wretched with sorrow as he viewed the dementor through his fingers. "What's the point? What have I to learn from all this save that I am a damned man! Why do you show me these things if I am past all hope?"

Yet still it stood, imperious and unmoved, pointing directly at Snape. A strong gust of wind rippled its cloak.

Snape dropped his hands from his eyes. He had seen something. The cloak fluttered again and he saw it, just barely peeking out from underneath the flimsy material draped over the dementor's outstretched arm… its left arm… its unusually whole and fleshy left arm…

On the underside it bore some sort of mark, like a tattoo, twisted and dark.

Snape's misery turned to fury in a flash.

"Who are you?" he yelled. He leapt to his feet and lunged at the impostor. The vision before him nearly vanished in his rush, but his target was locked solid. Blindly he grabbed at the dementor, clawing unfeelingly for a hold, and ripped back its hood.

The stygian eyes that met him bore into his in return, piercing his very soul with a horrifying shudder. The face before him was his own. Severus Snape, hook nosed, thin lipped and sallow skinned now grey with decay. Snape stepped back in terror, clutching his throat as he watched the ghost of his image, its sunken eyes gleaming in punishing dominance, open its slit of a mouth and breathe in. The gaping festering wound around its trachea rasped and rattled, flecking Snape's face with drops of black blood.

And it spoke. "Coward…"

His hand still at his throat, Snape began to back away, shaking his head.

"No… NO…" he moaned, his eyes shut tight.

"COWARD!" it roared, staining the snow with more of its blood. "Look at me!"

Snape's eyes snapped forward. The figure was advancing, its black robes billowing in the wind. Snape continued to back away, though unable to break his gaze. The bells were growing louder and faster, thunderous in his ears. Tears were rolling freely down his sharp face.

"Why?!" he wailed.

Suddenly, Snape tripped, falling backward over the tombstone behind him. He fell and continued to fall, the world blurring to obscurity around him, hearing nothing but the tolling of the bells and his own voice rasping out into the darkness:

"Remember!"


	6. STAVE FIVE: the spirit

**~STAVE FIVE~**

**the spirit**

Snape twisted and turned as he fell though darkness, the infernal bells ringing in his ears. His body was bound, wrapped in a suffocating shroud. "Remember!" The voice boomed in the distance amid the thunderous tolling.

His eyes flew open just in time to see a floor rise up beneath him. He hit it with a resounding thud. Snape groaned as he lay there face down. His head was spinning. Sweat dripped from his forehead into tiny pools on the cold flagstone floor. The bells were still ringing, but softer. They were warm, almost melodic. School bells… Snape tried to roll over but he was stuck, tightly wound in his bed sheets and the curtains from his four-poster.

_His _four-poster._ His _bed sheets.

Snape gasped and ripped at the fabric cocoon as he struggled to his feet. Sunlight was pouring into his dingy dungeon bedroom through the enchanted windows. He grabbed at the carriage clock by his bed. For a while he stared at it, forcing his eyes as well as his brain to focus.

Eleven o'clock.

Morning.

It was over. He'd made it! He was back, at Hogwarts, safe in his room. Snape ran his hands over his body and pinched his skin. He wasn't dreaming.

His bare feet slapped the stone floor as he dashed to the bathroom. He checked his neck closely in the mirror. There wasn't even a scar.

Snape gave a great sigh of relief and then, leaning on the sink, he began to laugh. He was delirious. His hands were shaking and his mouth was stretched wide, as he saw in the mirror, in a giddy smile.

He couldn't comprehend it at all. Had it just been a dream? Part of him wished to think so.

Suddenly he was sick. He vomited into the sink. The hung-over pain in his head, which he had not felt until now, drummed solidly against his temples.

Snape moaned softly, but it soon turned into another laugh. He couldn't help it. It felt so good to laugh and, having not done so for quite some time, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he still knew how.

"I've lost my mind," he chuckled.

But as he began to clean his face, he couldn't help but wonder. Was it possible? Did it _really_ happen? More importantly… did it reallyhappen all in one night? How long had he been gone?

This thought made Snape pause.

"Wait…" he said to himself. "What day is it?"

With his face still covered in suds, Snape darted into his bedroom and over to the calendar on the wall. His brow furrowed as he looked at it.

"Damn muggle calendar," he spat as he tore it down. "Tells you what day it should be, not what day it actually IS." Snape berated himself for his stupidity and his frugality. He should have invested in a magical calendar ages ago.

Snape threw open the door to his parlor. He needed to know what day it was, even if it meant wandering about the castle in naught but his nightwear.

A startled squeak from across the room, though, caught his attention. Standing at the fireplace was a Hogwarts house-elf, mottled green with a nose that looked like the wrong end of an old clothespin. Clutched in its tiny hands were a small broom and dustpan, full with the shards of the broken whiskey bottle.

"Master Snape!" twittered the elf. "Toby was not knowing that sir was still in his rooms. Sir is normally in his office by…" But the elf stopped short. Snape was advancing towards him with a fixated intent. The elf shrieked, obviously terrified. "Toby did not mean to bother Master Snape. Toby will leave!"

He prepared to vanish, but Snape had hold of his shoulders before he could even snap his fingers.

"What day is it?" Snape demanded.

"D-D-Day, sir?" he stuttered.

"Yes, day. Tell me what day it is!"

"Tuesday, sir."

"No!" Snape cried, lifting the elf off his feet in his frenzy. "What day is today? The number! The date!"

"Twenty-five!" he screamed, so close that his stumpy nose was mashed against Snape's. "The twenty-fifth of December! It's Christmas Day, sir!"

"And who is the headmaster?"

"Wha-"

"The headmaster! Who is-"

"Albus Dumbledore, sir!"

Snape practically dropped the house-elf on his head as he jumped (yes, jumped) and punched the air with his fist. He was ecstatic, elated on a level that he hardly knew even existed. He was home. He was alive. He still had time.

The nonplussed elf on the floor looked up at the professor as he whooped and danced around the room in his graying nightshirt. He looked positively mad, particularly since he still had soap suds lingering on the edge of his mouth. Snape must have realized his alarming appearance for he soon stopped and became reserved once more, though with great difficulty. The corners of his lips still wanted to twitch upward into a smile.

He cleared his throat and, trying not to laugh, addressed the shock-ridden elf.

"Thank you for your time."

The elf just sat there unblinking. He had scared the poor thing stiff. Snape was about to apologize but quickly changed tactics. Continuing to act so completely out of character, he figured, would probably only frighten the elf further.

"Toby, was it?" Snape grumbled, quickly adopting his more habitual scowl.

This seemed to shake the elf out of his stupor.

"Yes, sir."

"Kindly finish your duties here and get out, will you?"

Toby's face lit up at his curt order. "Oh, yes sir," he exclaimed. "Right away!"

He scrambled to collect his broom and dustpan but, as he reached the bin, he paused. He looked into the trash, crestfallen.

"What?" asked Snape, trying to sound annoyed.

"Master Snape did not like the cookies?"

Snape quirked an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" He peered into the bin and saw the remains of the festive plate of elf-made cookies he had tossed away the night before.

"Oh."

Snape suddenly felt very embarrassed. He was tempted again to apologize (what on earth was the matter with him?) but he refrained.

"No, they were… fine," he lied. "I'm just allergic to chocolate cookies." It was a lame excuse, but it was the best he could come up with. The elf bought it regardless.

"I is most sorry, sir. Toby will be sure to let the other house-elves know!"

"You do that."

_That was really stupid_, thought Snape. He actually enjoyed those cookies a great deal. Though, now that he thought about it, he could do without them. He had noticed lately that he was getting a little pudgy around his middle…

He turned to go back to his room.

"Merry Christmas, Professor Snape!" called Toby.

Snape hesitated then turned.

"The same to you, To-" but he had vanished.

Instead, Snape noticed his small ornately wrapped present from Dumbledore, still sitting on the table by his armchair. He picked it up and opened it. The air got caught in his throat.

It was a photograph set in a plain wood frame. The picture was old. The color was faded and the edges were bent, but the smiling faces waving back at him were as alive and familiar as if it had been yesterday.

It _had_ been yesterday… almost.

They were teenagers, all except for Professor Slughorn who stood in the back as he waved his burgundy Santa hat in the air. Regalus Black looked bemused but happy, carefully guarding his drink from being accidentally knocked out of his hand by the over-excited rotund professor. Severus was standing unwillingly in the center but was making little effort to move. He was blushing bright red and beaming. Every few seconds he chanced a glance to his right, towards Lily, her hair braided with gold and her arm around his shoulder.

Snape thought he would cry. He could feel it; a hot sensation in his face and behind his eyes that spread all the way down to his heart and lungs.

But he laughed! He laughed and he loved it.

Whether because of time or his own will, he had forgotten that day. He had forgotten the time before when things had mattered. He had forgotten the love, the friendship, the hope.

The voice of his dream echoed inside his head.

"_Remember."_

He could not forget now. Never. Not even if he wanted to.

"I will remember," he said. The faces in the picture seemed almost to listen. "I will remember the past, the rights and the wrongs. I will remember to hope, to listen, and to learn. I will remember that there is something worth fighting for."

He sniffed. Perhaps he would cry after all.

"I promise, I will always remember. Always."

*************************

As tempted as he was to showcase the full extent of his remarkably changed countenance, Snape resisted the urge lest all of Hogwarts be subjected to the same shock treatment he had given poor Toby. So, after leaving the dungeon and stepping into the sunlit corridors, Snape was set to act as casual as possible.

A casual Snape, however, did not necessarily constitute a normal Snape.

For instance, when he encountered Peeves dancing a noisy two-step with a protesting suit of armor in the hallway, Snape merely locked him inside a bubble as opposed to his customary send-off; blasting him into the other end of the school with a gale-force wind.

He also didn't kick Mrs. Norris after nearly tripping over her on the stairs. It had always amused him that Filch always thought the students were responsible for her abuse...

He managed to give a curt nod in reply to the "Good-Morrow to ye!" from the painting of Bartholomew the Bombastic Bishop of Beverly. Though, after nearly thirty minutes of being aurally assaulted with mindless prattle, he decided to never again respond to the overly-articulate aristocrat.

Snape even held a door open for two very surprised first-years. He strolled pleasantly in their wake as they dashed off, a little more than startled, to the Great Hall. He paused, though, as he neared the double doors and considered the four massive hourglasses along the wall.

After a moment's hesitation, Snape sighed and relented.

"Fifty points to Gryffindor for Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley and… Harry Potter. Reason: for the proper brewing of a rather complicated potion and their teacher's unfair judgment."

Fifty rubies dropped into the lower half of the Gryffindor hourglass.

"That's fifty points _apiece._"

Snape laughed incredulously at himself as more rubies poured into Gryffindor.

"Oh, hell," he said. "While you're at it fifty points to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. Reason: it's Christmas."

There was a shower of yellow and blue gems. By the end of it, though, Slytherin's hourglass looked rather stunted in comparison. Snape cast a quick furtive glance over his shoulder.

"And five points to Slytherin," he whispered. "Reason…?" He thought for a moment. "For S. Snape finally pulling his head out of his ass."

The hourglass gave him ten.

*************************

Inside the Great Hall, everyone was laughing, drinking and pulling crackers that emitted a loud snap, sparks and occasionally an odd hat with a stuffed vulture on top, which merited even more laughter.

"Oh, if only Severus were here," chuckled Dumbledore from the head of the table as he donned the awkward avian hat.

"Don't wish such a misfortune!" cried Trelawney, waving her hand in a warning fashion.

"Honestly, Albus," said a rather tipsy McGonagall. "He'd suck the fun right out of everything. He's such a little snot, ruining everyone's Christmas with his little storm cloud of chronic discontent."

"Now, Minerva, let's be fair," Dumbledore said delicately. "You know what he's been through. And besides, I can't imagine he's having a very happy Christmas on his own."

"Which is precisely why I've decided to join you fine people."

The entire table turned and looked, with surprise, to see Professor Snape standing in the doorway to the Great Hall. Trelawney shrieked loudly, covering her owl-esque glasses with her hands as Hagrid yelped and fell off his bench with a resounding boom. Professor McGonagall paused mid-sip, watching him skeptically, not really sure of what she was seeing.

Unable to help himself, Snape looked over his shoulder.

"Good gracious," he sneered. "From the way you lot are staring, I though the Dark Lord was standing right behind me…"

He strode down to the dinner table. Dumbledore sat at the head, smiling benignly over the tops of his steepled fingers.

"Nice hat, Professor," Snape said. "But, honestly, purple velvet is really more your style."

"That's kind of you, Severus," he said as Snape situated himself awkwardly between Trelawney and McGonagall. "Are going to be joining us in the feast?"

"No, I thought I would just sit here and idly watch as my stomach devoured itself out of hunger," he drawled. "Pass the cranberry sauce, Flitwick?"

As the dwarfish professor attempted vainly to reach the dish in the center of the table, eventually levitating it over with his wand, McGonagall continued to stare at Snape. He caught her glance and held it.

"What? Do I have something in my teeth?" he asked in feigned innocence.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Apparently eating," he said as he loaded his plate with turkey and potatoes. "Or at least trying to. Is there something the matter?"

"Oh, come off it," she sniped. "I know your game. You've got your robes in a twist over something and now we all have to suffer. So, let's get this over with. What do you want?"

"The gravy at the moment," he said. "Hagrid, if you don't mind?"

Hands shaking slightly, Hagrid made to pass the bowl but McGonagall stopped him. Snape quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Considering the season, Minerva," he said, "you really should try to be a little more giving."

McGonagall huffed at having her own words thrown back at her. "More _giving_?" she scoffed. "What? Like you?"

"It would be a start," he said calmly as he helped himself to the candied yams. "After all, I did just return all unfairly deducted points to Gryffindor. I even sent a few to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff as well. That may have, perhaps, been overkill, but the day has me feeling rather generous."

McGonagall sat with her eyes bulging, utterly gobsmacked. Snape proffered her one the crystal bowls. "Chestnuts?"

Dumbledore laughed outright, suddenly causing the vulture atop his hat to spark to life, squawking its own little off-pitch laugh as well. Dumbledore looked up, mildly surprised, and the rest of the table roared with laughter, save for McGonagall who was at that moment checking to see if her wine had been spiked with some sort of hallucinogen.

For the duration of the feast, everyone was pleasantly entertained by Snape and his newfound, though no less snarky, behavior. Even McGonagall, who for most of the time still believed he was trying to pull a fast one, eventually gave way to his charm… while still closely guarding her drink, of course.

As the sun began to reach down towards the horizon, Snape stood up and, without speaking, prepared to leave.

"Severus," Dumbledore called. "Aren't you going to stay for presents?"

"I've already had mine," he said. A faint but knowing smile appeared underneath the headmaster's beard. "Besides, I have other business that I must attend to."

At that, he turned on his heel and strolled out of the double doors, shouting "Accio Turkey!" over his shoulder at just the very last second. One of the remaining un-eaten turkeys zoomed through the air and out the door, disappearing around the corner along with the hem of his billowing cloak.

*************************

At the Burrow, Hermione Granger raised her glass in a toast.

"To Professor Snape!" she said and the rest of the table followed suit. Though, as sincere as she was, she still couldn't help but laugh inwardly at the pained and almost gagged expressions on the surrounding faces. "In gratitude for his uncharacteristic leniency," she continued, "without which we would not be here today."

"Leniency?" inquired Mrs. Weasley.

"Oh, well, maybe more like negotiability…" Hermione said, thoughtfully biting her lower lip.

"Yes, but for what?"

"For giving us three a day off from our deten… ouch, Ron that was my leg!"

Hermione glared across the table at Ron who was white as a sheet, but her scowl was nothing compared to the steely glint in Mrs. Weasley's eyes.

Aghast, Hermione hissed, "You haven't told her?"

Ron's teeth were clenched. "I was going to wait till _after_ dinner…"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" Mrs. Weasley bristled. "Did you get detention… again?"

There was a loud knock at the door. Ron quickly made to stand up, but Fred and George pushed him back down

"We'll get it!" they said, smirking in unison as they left Ron to face his mother.

Ron sank low in his seat. "Thanks a lot, Hermione…" he grumbled as he cowered under his mother's penetrating glare.

Hermione made to apologize, but Mrs. Weasley spoke first.

"Honestly, Ronald, you've been getting into far too much trouble lately. Soon you'll have the same reputation as Fred and George!"

Ron smiled, finding proud affirmation in his mother's condemnation, obviously not what Mrs. Weasley had intended. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Why can't you just act like Ginny? She's always so well behaved!"

Harry snorted in laughter, quickly disguising it as a cough. Ginny smirked slightly, careful not to let her mother see. They had been playing footsie under the table for the past fifteen minutes.

"But it wasn't my fault!" Ron cried indignantly. "Snape just has it out for us!"

"First of all, it's _Professor_ Snape and, secondly, he does NOT have it out for you. You and you alone are responsible for your actions."

"But he's just so…"

"AWESOME!" cried the twins in unison from down the hall. "Everyone, get out here and look at this!"

Perplexed, the rest of the table rose and went to the front door.

"Good heavens…" Mrs. Weasley said.

Sitting on the doorstep, still steaming within a protective heat-charm bubble, was a massive turkey surrounded by dozens of sundry little trinkets and baubles, cakes and pies. The silver platter the mini-feast was resting on bore no symbol or family crest. There was no card, nor any other indication of who the sender was. All that was left to be seen was a trail of long narrow footprints in the snow that lead to the gate and then suddenly vanished.

*************************

The door to Snape's office creaked open slowly the next day as Harry, Ron and Hermione arrived for their detention at 8:30, an hour and a half late. They cautiously peered into the room, expecting to be met with the full force of Snape's wrath… but he wasn't there.

"Well that's lucky," Ron said.

Harry looked less certain. "Let's hope so," he said.

They quickly took their seats in front of Snape's desk, thinking that if they hurried they might overtake their missed time. Snape would never know.

Only, there was no work for them to do. They looked around the tables, ready to find some horrid something or other, but they were bare. There were no notes on the board either. Confused and nervous, they whispered amongst themselves:

"Where is he?"

"Is he late?"

"Snape is never late."

"Maybe he was here earlier but then left when we didn't show?"

"God, I hope not."

"Are we going to be punished for this?"

"I bet _this _is our punishment; sitting in silence in the freezing dungeon with nothing to do".

"He's such a sadistic bastard."

"…Should we leave?"

"Are you mad?!"

"It was only a suggestion."

The door flew open, banging violently against the stone wall. The three practically fell off their stools. They turned and watched as Snape glided up to his desk and sat down on its edge, facing them with his arms crossed. He said nothing. He only watched.

The next few minutes were spent in the loudest possible silence. Something was different about Snape. He looked just as horrible as ever, just as intimidating, but something had changed. Like a ripple in water, the trio suddenly shuddered as they simultaneously realized the difference. He was smiling.

It was an expression so close to his normal sneer that they would have normally overlooked it, had they not been so close to eminent danger at the time. It wasn't warm, or welcoming, or even appeasing. It was a cold, glinting smile, like the mouth of a shark, but a smile none the less. It looked so foreign on his face, almost restrained, as though it was fighting its way to the surface but got distorted along the way. He had never looked more terrifying.

Harry, Ron and Hermione could only stare.

"I'm waiting," Snape said.

The three of them glanced at each other, unsure as what to say. Hermione piped up first, clearing her throat nervously.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."

"Well, that's a first," he said. "Surely you would be able to explain to me why you and your fellow offenders are not only late to your detention today, but also failed entirely to arrive yesterday?"

Hermione looked at him incredulously. Her mouth hung slack, apparently debating if he was serious or if she should laugh at his ill-formed, as well as improbable, joke. After a moment, she spoke. "Because, sir, it was Christmas yesterday. You gave us the day off."

"Did I?" he purred malevolently. "Strange that I should do so. That sounds so unlike me."

"Well, you did, sir," said Ron.

"Silence!" Snape spat. "This is inexcusable. Points have been deducted. Detentions have been issued. And now you have the gall to call me a liar? Such behavior will not be tolerated, such insolence, such insubordination!"

"But it was one day!" Harry cried, incensed.

Snape rounded on him. "And it made such a difference, I'm sure."

The corners of Snape's lips twitched and the smile was gone, replaced with his most frightening of snarls. "I've had my fill of this, Potter." He rose suddenly from his desk and crossed, like death on wheels, to the front of their desks. Harry gripped his wand tightly, afraid of being attacked. "Therefore…" he growled, inches away from their faces. "I'm sending the lot of you back home!"

"NO!" Hermione shrieked. "You can't! Not EXPELLED!"

"Who said anything about being expelled?" The smile was back.

The three of them stared back, completely lost. It was unlike anything they had ever seen. Though it borderlined on gloating, Snape was now genuinely smiling. Words could not describe what they saw other than, as impossible as it seemed, Snape looked happy.

Now they were really scared.

"You had better hurry," Snape said. "I very much doubt that Mrs. Weasley is enjoying waiting for your return."

"What?" Ron said, still rather dumbstruck. "She's expecting us?"

"I should like to think so," Snape said casually. "If I am correct in assuming she got my message after washing that silver platter, which she more than likely did. I placed a hydrocryptic charm it that would only be revealed with water. The message explained everything, how you lot would be sent home after returning to finish your detention." Snape cocked his head a little in amusement. "Well, I've had my fun. You can go."

He turned his back to them and returned to his desk.

"Wait!" Ron cried. "YOU sent the turkey?"

"Did I say that?" Snape said in feigned incredulity. He was enjoying this. "I only ever implied that I sent the message."

They couldn't move. They were just too confounded. All they could do was just sit and balk at him.

"Of course," he said dismissively. "If you would rather stay here than go and enjoy the rest of your Christmas holiday at home…"

That shook them out of their stupor.

"NO!" they yelled in unison. Snape suppressed a chuckle.

"It's just…" Ron tried. "I don't understand. Why?"

Snape arched an eyebrow at him. "Kindly, do not look a gift horse in the mouth, Mr. Weasley. You're liable to get bit."

As soon as they were convinced that they were not being tricked, which took quite some time, they collected their things and made for the door. Half way out, though, Hermione stopped and turned back. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a roll of parchment and walked up to Snape at his desk.

"I almost forgot," she said as she handed it to him.

Snape simply looked at it. "What's this?"

"My essay on snake venom," she said simply.

Snape peered at it for a moment longer and then returned to his grade book. "That isn't due until next week."

Hermione's eyes got big. "You said it was due today!"

"I seem to be saying a lot of things lately that I don't ever recall saying."

Hermione flushed slightly.

"Well, Potter and Weasley," Snape said glancing over her shoulder, "have yet to complete their essays, judging from the looks on their faces…" He smiled darkly at their tense expressions. "So I can only assume that you are mistaken… for once."

"But I stayed up all night writing it!"

"Wonderful. Now you can surely enjoy the rest of your vacation unencumbered." He took the essay from her hand with a snap. "I expect your essays on my desk at the start of class next week," he directed to Harry and Ron at the door. "And let's hope, for your sake, that they are just as good as Ms. Grangers. First impressions are, after all, the ones that tend to last, and as her paper will be the first graded… Well, let's just say yours had better exceed expectations."

Hermione smiled. He had just inadvertently complimented her work.

"Go on, you silly girl," he barked, though not without a ghost of a smile himself. "All of you. Go."

They turned and left, looking unsure as if any of this was really happening. Snape watched them go, just as unsure. Unsure of what was happening, of what had happened… or what was about to happen. He was lightheaded and numb at the same time. Excited, though sobered with thought. Before he knew what he was doing, he called out.

"Potter. A word before you leave."

Harry stopped just as he was about to disappear around the corner. He looked toward Ron and Hermione.

"Alone," Snape said.

With an uneasy nod, Harry gave his friends a signal to go on ahead and re-entered the classroom.

"The door, if you don't mind, Potter," Snape said and Harry closed the door.

_Perhaps this is too much_, Snape thought. _Perhaps this is unnecessary and will have no effect whatsoever. Perhaps I will live to regret this..._

"Harry," Snape said, feeling as unsettled as Harry looked with him using his given name. "There is something I need to tell you."

_Perhaps I am nothing but a coward_, Snape thought as he reached into his desk drawer.

"This isn't easy or simple… but somehow, I feel that it is right."

_Or, perhaps, I'm braver than I thought. I can only hope. _

He pulled out an old photograph encased in a plain wooden frame.

"I need to tell you about the past. About Lily Evans, your mother. About how things were… and how they still are."


	7. Finale

**~Finale~**

"Professor Lupin, may we start the feast now?"

"Goodness, no!" interjected Professor Trelawney from down the table. "It's terribly bad luck to begin a feast with only thirteen at the table!"

"Sorry Albus, but I agree with Sybil," said Professor Lupin. "We should wait. It wouldn't do to have any misfortune wreck this most lovely Christmas dinner. Heaven knows, the roast could spring to life and kill us all!" He looked sideways at Trelawney, who was scowling at his sarcasm. "And for the millionth time," he said. "Call me Teddy! Professor Lupin makes me sound ancient!"

Albus Severus Potter smiled, even though he continued to stare at the food like a starving wolf. "Professor Longbottom…?" he asked tentatively.

"No," he said quickly. "Professor Lupin- ow!" Neville rubbed the back of his head where the blue-haired professor had smacked him. He laughed it off. "_Teddy_ is right. We should wait for everyone else. It's only polite."

"Yeah, Albus," jeered a blonde-haired Slytherin down the table. "Be patient like a good little Gryffindor."

"Oh shut up, Malfoy," Lily Potter snapped from the other end. For one so young, she sure was full of fire.

Scorpius Malfoy was about to retort but Teddy cut in, grabbing a spoonful of mashed potatoes and holding it threateningly near his mouth. "Behave, you three," he warned. "Or I'll summon the dreaded roast beef demon of doom!"

Everyone laughed, particularly when Trelawney screeched and snatched the spoon out of Teddy's hand, and order was restored once more.

"Ah, Ted, yer such a clever one," chuckled Hagrid, his wirey beard streaked with grey. "If only yer parents were here to see yeh now… Charms professor an' the youngest head of Ravenclaw house ever." He smiled warmly. "They would be so proud of yeh."

"Yeah, I wish they could have made it," Teddy said. "But they were just having too much fun on their vacation for me to pull them away. Mom loves the Bahamas and, let's face it, Dad really needed a tan."

The doors to the Great Hall opened at that moment. A young Gryffindor walked in, stuffing a book back into her already full satchel. "Sorry I'm late," she said to the table. "I was doing some last minute work in the library." Rose Weasley was so like her mother it was uncanny.

She was about to seat herself next to Teddy when she paused, looking around. "Where's Hugo and James?" she asked. "They left the common room before I did."

Neville smiled and rolled his eyes. "Knowing those two, they could be anywhere. They're just like their fathers; thick as thieves and equally adventurous… if not more so."

"Harry an' Ginny must be relieved," Hagrid said. "Finally gettin' to enjoy a quiet year alone in the house. Ron an' Hermione too, fer that matter. I can't imagine 'ow they do it. Those kids are a righ' handful, they are."

As if cued, Hugo Weasley and James Potter walked through the double oak doors and into the Great Hall. They practically waltzed to their seats, both looking deviously sheepish.

"Where were you guys?" Rose asked.

"Nowhere," they said in unison far too quickly.

Teddy sighed. "What did you do?"

"Us? Nothing."

BAM! A huge explosion sounded from behind the closed doors to the Entrance Hall. A shrill voice soon echoed behind it in utter vexation. "POTTER! WEASLEY!"

Hugo and James snickered behind their hands. Teddy raised a questioning eyebrow.

"It wasn't us!" James said. "It was…"

The doors burst open. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley stumbled into the Great Hall, dragged in by their ears by an irate Professor McGonagall. Hermione and Ginny followed in tow, each one looking just as exasperated as the other.

Rose, Lily, and Albus shouted with surprise while Hugo and James smirked at each other. The Potter and Weasley children were thrilled by their parent's unplanned visitation, but opted to stay in their seats. It was the safest place.

Professor McGonagall looked positively wild.

"SNOW in the Entrance Hall?" she railed. "Never in all my life…!"

The table craned their necks to see. Beyond her, the entire Entrance Hall had been transformed into what looked like the North Pole. The floor was covered in a layer of snow at least a foot deep. Igloo forts were positioned strategically in the room, firing off a round of snowballs every few seconds as well as the occasional snow-cannonball. The banisters were all iced over, providing a sliding ramp for several yapping translucent penguins. Every now and then, one of them would sneak up behind the translucent Yeti and nip him on the ankle, causing him to roar and chase them around the room as they squawked in delight.

Harry and Ron were laughing riotously. Apparently, their time away from Hogwarts had made them fearless.

"This is outrageous!" McGonagall yelled. "If you two were still in school, I'd…"

"What?" Harry teased. "Make us write lines?"

Ron joined in. "Send us to detention with Filch or, God forbid, Hagrid?"

"Well," said a voice from behind them, "I've always liked the idea of filling your pockets with pork chops and then sending you out to swim with the giant squid… but that's just me."

Harry and Ron broke free of McGonagall and turned around.

Standing like a black shadow against the pearlescent snowy hallway, Severus Snape waited with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed.

"Potter," he said curtly.

"Headmaster."

The green eyes met the black and for a moment everything was still. The air thickened silently as the two wizards studied each other, almost daring the other one to move first. The tension was only broken when a rouge snowball suddenly offed McGonagall's hat.

"A charming device…" Snape said as she dusted the snow from her robes. "A Weasley Wizard Wheezes product, I assume?"

"None other," Ron said.

"Kindly inform Messers Fred and George that they have yet another item now added to our ever increasing banned objects list."

"They'll be pleased to hear it, sir."

Snape nodded slightly in reply. His gaze returned to Harry. He sneered. Harry smiled.

"Can we eat NOW?" Albus called from across the room.

Laughing at his son's impatience, Harry led the rest of the crowd to the table for their Christmas feast.

In another existence, where time held no sway and life had more meaning, three spirits were watching on.

"Well done, sir," said Lily Evans.

"Oh, it was hardly my doing," said Dumbledore. "If anything, you my dear are the one to be congratulated."

"It wasn't me either," she sighed. "It was him. He wanted it, more than anything, to hope. He just didn't know it."

"Well said." Dumbledore smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Did you know, sir, that it would end this way?" asked Regalus.

"I hadn't the foggiest. Even by my own predictions, this is more than my wildest dreams."

"I couldn't be happier," Lily said.

"Nor could I," said Dumbledore.

Regalus remained quiet, standing still with his hands deep in his pockets.

"And you, Regalus?" Dumbledore asked. "How are those voices you told me about?"

Looking up, his eyes bleary, he finally smiled. "Hardly a memory."

Back at the table, a few mere feet from where the spirits stood, presents were being opened and crackers were being pulled. Snape pulled one with McGonagall and out popped an old scrunched hat with a stuffed vulture on top.

"Damn it all," he grunted as the table roared with laughter. "I thought I had managed to get rid of the last of those."

"Never," McGonagall said cheekily as she rammed it on top of his head. "This is tradition!"

Harry wiped his glasses as he laughed. "It's such a pleasant surprise to know that, even after all these years, so much is still the same. You'd think more would have changed."

"You have no idea…" Snape said softly.

"A toast," Neville said, and everyone lifted their glasses. "To Professor Snape, one of the greatest Headmasters of Hogwarts."

"And one of the bravest," Harry added quietly.

"Here, here!" the table cried and they drank.

Snape just smiled.

"Thank you," he said. "It is more than I could ever hope for."

**~The End~**


End file.
